The League of Evil
by Dush-kins
Summary: A look at the Nations of the Axis of Evil, Beyond the Axis of Evil, and Outpost of Tyranny.6# Havana: Life was a collection of little things which brought bits of happiness. They were all fleeting but Cuba held onto them because that was what life was.
1. Minsk

**A/N:** Good God. Am I insane.

Okay, so… once upon a time, there was a loser named Dush-kins. She had no life. She loved Hetalia and World History. She loved writing fanfiction. And then she came up with _The League of Evil._

Basically, the _League of Evil_ is a brotherhood of sorts composed on the _Axis of Evil, Beyond the Axis of Evil, _and the _Outpost of Tyranny._ Never heard of them? For those of you who aren't familiar with these lists, the _Axis of Evil _is basically a list of countries that either were or still are thought to be major threats to world peace: North Korea, Iran, and Iraq. _Beyond the Axis of _Evil consists of three other countries who currently do not—but showed the potential to someday be—disrupters of world peace: Syria, Libya and Cuba. And finally, the countries on the _Outpost of Tyranny_ are thought to have the most oppressive governments in the world: Belarus, Myanmar, and Zimbabwe.

So then I thought, what if these countries, disgruntled and pissed off at the antics of America's (ex) boss, decided to congregate together in solidarity against, what seems to be, the whole entire world? This is the _League of Evil._

I have no idea where I'm going to take this. All I know is that this fic is going to contain 9 vignettes for each country. They range from history based to character based. The first to go is Belarus. I'm going to admit, she's a bit OCC here, but for a reason. I donno—I've been reading a lot of Harlem Renaissance literature lately, and a lot of it has to do with the main character finding themselves after a lifetime of living for/under the boot of other people. I suppose this may have influenced how I wrote Belarus here, because above all, I've always liked the idea of Belarus developing a love not only for Russia, but for herself as well (seriously, am I the only one who thinks that Belarus doesn't love herself?)

On a side note. I named each chapter after the Nation's capital because I've always believed that the capital is the Nation's heart (aside from the commonly held vital regions theory). I want this story to be an insight into the "hearts" of these otherwise unpopular and belligerent Nations. Above all, that's what I wanna do with this story c:

Anyway. I'm done rambling. On with the show.

**Disclaimer:**Heh, you know how different a character Belarus would be if I owned Hetalia?

**Chapter 1: Minsk**

**1: Love**

Belarus had always considered herself to be an expert of sorts on love.

Ever since she could remember, back when she was an idea and not even real, she had been obsessed with the idea of love. She would think about it, almost constantly, about what it consisted of, what separated true love from its doppelgangers, infatuation and lust. It was her obsession, her compulsion, her weakness, and although nearly every Nation in the world would certainly think the contrary, Belarus was truly a Nation bursting with love. It cut at her seams and overflowed; she glowed with it, that menacing aura of hers.

She loved her big brother, Russia. Was _in_ love with him. Her protector, her hero, her only one, it was Russia. That love was not returned, but it wasn't as though she ever noticed. All her love, her unlimited source of it, it was all for him. All for him. The one Nation who would never appreciate it.

However, it wasn't as though Belarus wasn't the object the affections of others. Ukraine, her older sister, adored her. Lithuania had been infatuated with her for years. Japan had always tried on occasions to get to know her. America had always expressed the want to take care of her. And there were others, as well.

This was the curse of Belarus: she always loved the wrong people. The wrong person.

And she did not love herself.

**2: Envy**

Belarus hated Czech. With all her heart.

For a Nation full of love, she only hated someone for good reason. Though Czech had never done anything. The trembling little girl didn't' seem like she was capable of anything truly malicious or mean-hearted. She liked to jump rope. She liked licorice. Was a master at playing the piano. She used to pick dandelions from the back yard of the Soviet Union and give them to—

And this is what Belarus truly hated about Czech—

"Thank you so much, Czech. They're beautiful."

"Make a wish, Slovakia!"

She had what Belarus had always wanted. She didn't want Slovakia, _never_ someone like him. The man was the goddamned senior citizen among the Nations of the world, not very old by human standards but ancient among the eternally youthful Nations. He looked to be about in his 50's, though there were plenty of other countries who were much, much older than him. Similarly, Czech took on the appearance of a very young girl, when she was in fact much older than many countries. The two of them were quite the mystery. But one thing that was for certain was the love that they shared, their connection. Belarus hated it.

Their relationship wasn't like that of a grandparent with his grandchild, as one might expect. But it wasn't a romantic one either, as Belarus wanted with Russia. They were friends. Best friends. It was as though the juxtaposition of their appearance's didn't even matter to them, the love was _that_ unconditional. And Belarus hated Czech for it. Hated Slovakia, too. Although an expert on love, she couldn't understand for the life of her how two Nations could feel the exact same way about each other at the exact same time. It rarely happened with humans, and in effect was nearly impossible for their kind. _Nearly_ impossible. And Belarus was convinced that the two of them had just taken up all the scarce good chance of this happening to her for at least another century or two.

"Czechoslovakia is being rather… rebellious lately, da. I should stop them in some way before they get too big for their boots—"

"Invade them," was Belarus' quick response.

And for once, Russia listened.

**3: Common**

"You and me, we're in the same boat, ya know."

Belarus had her gun aimed at Cuba, because she knew that he was trying to steal Russia away from her. She knew, she knew, she _knew, _just by the way Russia looked at Cuba sometimes that there had to be something going on between them. The only Nation who had ever been a bigger threat to Russia's affections was Serbia. But Serbia was long out of the picture (he hadn't signed the Warsaw Pact, thank God), so now, all she needed to do was get rid of Cuba. She figured, it wouldn't be so hard; all she had to do was shoot him, right?

But then he said that one line. _We're in the same boat._ Belarus lowered her gun, not enough so that it was no longer aimed at Cuba, but just enough so that she could see him. "Excuse me?"

"We're the same. You love Russia, right? Like, you wanna be with him?"

Most other Nations would have hesitated to admit any incestuous feelings they may have harbored, but not Belarus. "Yes, of course I do."

Cuba shrugged. "Alright, so do I."

"SO YOU ADMIT IT." Belarus cocked her gun, readjusted her aim. Cuba jumped up slightly, though didn't seem half as startled as any other Nation would've.

"N-NO! I DON'T WANNA MARRY RUSSIA! What I mean is, you aren't the only one who wants to marry a sibling!"

Belarus remained quiet, mulling this over. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting for Cuba, she snapped out, "Liar!"

"I-I'm not lying, I swear! There's this one brother of mine, who I've always, always loved, but of course he never felt the same. I mean, we have different ways of going about it, but in the end, you and me are the same, Belarus!"

Through clenched teeth, Belarus seethed, "You're only saying that to get me to drop my guard, so then you can have big brother all to yourself."

"I'm not. I'm for real, Belarus. I don't love Russia. I mean, Russia's a great guy and everything, but I'm not in love with him. My heart Is with someone else, I don't want him that way. I know that he's yours!"

Belarus glared at him for a few fleeting moments before her hand fell to her side. She dropped her gun. Cuba gave her a confused look, and the corners of Belarus' mouth twitched upwards. "You're the first Nation to ever acknowledge that big brother belongs to me." Her face hardened for a moment. "You'd better not be lying to me."

"I'm not. I swear, I'm not." Cuba glanced away from Belarus, looked off at some blank space in the sky. "I would never lie to you like that."

Some part of her knew he wouldn't. He would be the first she would ever let in.

**4: Ignorance**

"Belarus, why is it that you want to marry Russia so badly?"

Belarus, who had busy baking a birthday pastry for said Nation, suddenly slowed in her work. The vigorous mixing of ingredients slowed until she had stopped completely, and she slowly raised her head to meet Ukraine's gaze, blue meeting blue. For once, her gaze was not hard, nor intimidating in the least. She actually looked sort of… sad.

After a few long moments of dead silence, the younger of the two finally answered, "It's because… big brother has helped me so much. He's made mistakes, but he's always tried his best, always did what he could…" she looked away from her sister then, and off into the distance. "Not to mention the fact that he's quite beautiful, possibly the most handsome man in the world." She offered a crooked smile to her sister, and slowly resumed her mixing, before adding in, "He can be dangerous, he can be mean, he can be cruel, but at the same time he has this gentleness and this grace that is so uncharacteristic among men his size. He's just wonderful, in every way."

Ukraine nodded. "All of that is true. I agree. But what is it that makes you want him as a husband?"

This time, Belarus didn't falter in her activities, didn't even look up. "Because, isn't that the point of any girls life? To get married? Big brothers as good a man as any."

"Well, I suppose…"

"Of course." She added in yet another ingredient and continued to stir. There was silence for a few minutes, before Belarus suddenly asked, "Who do you want to marry, Ukraine?"

Ukraine blinked away tears, and murmured, "No one."

And Belarus believed her. It was truly a shame. Belarus never noticed the way Ukraine looked at her, with the same kind of eyes that Belarus herself used to look at Russia. It was unfortunate, really. Ukraine would have treated her like the princess that she was.

**5: Trio**

"How the _fuck_ can you do this to me?"

This is what Belarus heard through the door that lead to America's office. It only startled her for a brief moment; then, upon remembering who she was, she shook away the brief shock and barged in through the door. Once she got in, she saw what appeared to be a tall African woman harassing America in about the same fashion that Belarus herself intended on dealing with the so-called hero of the world. The African had her back to the door, having slammed her hands down on America's desk in all her rage. In effect, she also blocked America's view of the door, rendering them both unable to see her. Belarus slammed the door behind herself, causing both parties to jump up.

The African woman looked over her shoulder. "You're Belarus, right? Well, get line; I got here first, so I get first dibs at slapping America around."

Belarus didn't respond verbally, she only acted. Taking out the trusty knife she kept hidden in her waistband, she promptly took it out and threw it at the African. It pierced though the air and missed Zimbabwe by about an inch or two, eventually slamming into the wall tip-first.

"Woah," was all the poorest Nation in the world could bring herself to say.

Belarus narrowed her eyes, her twin orbs in themselves daggers far sharper than her measly knife. "Move."

Zimbabwe clicked her tongue. "Please. You think, just cause you're white and have a weapon, I'm gonna listen to you? Kiss my ass, I got here first."

Belarus stalked over to the other Nation, but before she could attack, the window to the far right of the office shattered.

"What the—?"

It appeared as though a Nation had just crashed in through the window. She wore traditional clothing, her hair was in a bun, and she appeared to be of Southeast Asian descent. The woman had landed on her hands and knees, and there was blood everywhere from where the glass had cut her, but she didn't even look as though she minded. She merely got up and dusted herself off. As she began to pick shards of glass out of the palms of her hands, she asked in an eerily cheerful tone, "Sorry I'm late." She glanced up for a brief moment, and then took a double take upon seeing that America was not the only other Nation in the room. "Wait. _Wait._ You're Zimbabwe and Belarus!"

Said Nations only stared at her for a few long moments, before starting back on each other. Belarus charged over and collided with Zimbabwe, knocking her over backwards into America's desk. In response, Zimbabwe wrapped her hands around Belarus' neck and began to squeeze, her long fingers digging into the soft flesh of Belarus. Belarus began to claw at Zimbabwe, scratching her face, eventually balling her hands up into fists and raining blows down upon the African.

They were both so lost in their fighting that they didn't notice Myanmar off to the side, flailing her arms about helplessly, crying out, "Don't fight! Don't fight, please!" But once she realized that they weren't listening, Myanmar narrowed her eyes, and charged towards Belarus.

She made it there just in time, before Belarus clawed Zimbabwe's eyes out and then lost consciousness from said Nation choking her. She knocked Belarus down to the ground. Myanmar was on top of her now and when she tried to shove her off, the Asian woman took hold of the European's wrists and held her hands above her head. "Enough!" she screamed. She looked over at Zimbabwe. "ENOUGH!"

"Tell her," Zimbabwe stated, rubbing her face. "She started it."

"_I_ started it?" Belarus cried. "You pathetic little—"

"_I don't care! Stop it!"_ Myanmar cried. "Look at us! Look! We can't fight, we have to stand by each other! This is exactly what America wants, he wants us to go against each other!" She looked down at Belarus. "You don't want to give him and the West what they want, do you?"

Zimbabwe rubbed the back of her neck, opened her mouth to say something, then took a look around. "'The fuck did America go?"

It was only then that the other two Nations noticed that America wasn't there anymore, that he'd escaped during the midst of their fighting. Myanmar stood up and off of Belarus; the European jumped to her feet a moment later. "We have to go find him," Belarus said in a definite tone.

"That's right." Myanmar agreed.

Zimbabwe smirked. "Yeah, we still have a lot of yelling and ass-kicking to do."

They never stopped being together after that.

**6: League**

They met the others by chance.

At a world meeting, in October of 2001. She'd been sitting with Zimbabwe to her left and Myanmar to her right, and the three of them watched, eyes wide and mouths hanging open slightly in their amazement, as Iran jumped on the table and continued to rant.

"America, I'm not gonna say that you deserved what you got, cause you know deep down inside you kinda did. You already know, so you know what? I won't say it. But what I will say is that I'll thank you in advance to at least let me know before you go off invading my poor little brother, Afghanistan. Tell me so that I can talk you out of it. What's going on with us is none of your fucking business, okay? None. So chill the fuck out and get the fuck out of the Middle East. That's what you should do, if you ask me."

And America smiled—not the same smile that he usually wore, but a tense one. As if it was taking every ounce of his willpower not draw up a fist and punch Iran—or better yet, draw upon some more troops and invade him altogether. "Well, no one asked for your opinion, now did they?"

"Yeah, not out loud! But I know that everyone is dying to hear what I have to say. Cause I'm Iran, you know? I'm perfect and whatnot." The Islamic Republic took a look around, shrugged, and then jumped off the table and onto the floor. "This meeting's lame. C'mon, you guys."

And with that, five other countries—North Korea, Iraq, Syria, Libya, and Cuba—all rose. The small group started towards the door as quietly as Iran was loud.

As Belarus watched them leave, she felt someone elbow her in the ribs. She whirled around, and saw that it was Myanmar. "What?" she spat.

"We should be going with them. We're the same as they are."

"The same as they…?" Belarus thought for a moment; well, they _were_ the _Outpost of Tyranny_.

"We should leave," Myanmar repeated.

Without saying anything to the other two, Zimbabwe rose. "Hold up, man!" The group of six turned around. Zimbabwe cleared her throat. "Me and my girls are going with you." Myanmar rose on her own, while Zimbabwe grabbed Belarus by the arm and pulled her up.

"Ah, Belarus! You're with us?" Cuba grinned.

"Who are these people?" Syria asked the Latin American. He grinned. "That's just Belarus and pals. The _Outpost of Tyranny_! They're good people!"

Belarus's eye twitched. More and more, these groups that America had created for them seemed to be becoming a fraternity of sorts, something to be proud of instead of ashamed. The Soviet Union had been something like this, but Belarus didn't want to be part of anything if Russia wasn't involved. And on this matter, she knew that he sided with his once-mortal enemy, America. Was it because he felt sorry for the idiot? But he deserv—

Oh, God. What was she thinking?

She turned back to look at Russia. She knew by the angle that his head was facing that he could see her watching him out of the corner of his eyes, but he was ignoring her. He was instead looking past her, past Zimbabwe and Myanmar, to the group of six which made up the _Axis of Evil_ and _Beyond the Axis of Evil_. She wouldn't mind it if he was staring at Cuba; she lo—_was_ _very fond_ of Cuba, because out of everyone he was the first to understand her, at least a little bit. But something inside of her told her that it wasn't him. It was someone else.

Zimbabwe had to all but drag her to the other six, Myanmar just in front of them, her hips swaying from side to side in that delicate gait of hers. She tried not to notice Zimbabwe staring at her ass; she focused on the six others. She locked eyes with North Korea for a moment, and he nodded once in acknowledgment. But, acknowledgement of what?

Once they finally made it over, Iran placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered, "Welcome to the League of Evil."

**7: Weddings pt. 1**

She showed up in Moscow in her wedding dress the very next day, and promised Russia that she would give up all this 'League of Evil' nonsense if he would only make an honest woman out of her. Marry her. Become one with her in the way he always dreamed.

"I don't have to be the blemish of Europe, big brother. Just marry me, right now."

She tried to ignore the way the color drained out of her beloved's already pale face, as he took a step away from her, trying to put as much distance as possible between them. He sighed heavily. "Belarus, listen to me—"

"I'll do anything you want," she tried. "We don't have to call it the Union of Belarus and Russia. Your name can come first if you want! We don't even have to have twin capitals, all the glory can go to Moscow! Brother, I've always loved you. Always, always, always! Please, brother, don't make me leave. Don't push me out of Europe, out of favor with the world."

He turned away, his back now facing her. His shoulders were hunched over as if he were somehow trying to hide. But he could never hide from Belarus; when would he ever learn? "Please, brother, grant my wish. All my life, my entire existence, has been dedicated to you. Why do you deny the one person who's loved you through everything? I want to be with you forever, Russia," she staggered over to him, reached out and clenched two handfuls of his tan coat in her thin hands. She leaned her head against his back and cried for the first time about it, because Belarus recognized that this was her final chance. This moment was to be the turning point of the rest of her life. She would either realize her dream of becoming one with her beloved brother, or he would deny her, push her away, exile her into the arms of belligerents.

"Big brother…?" her breath came out in plumes of ice cold, and he didn't answer. And she knew then, she would never have her wedding. She would never be a bride.

She pushed herself away from him and ran down the hill she had found him on, out of Moscow and out of her brother's streets altogether. She ran through Chechnya and the rest of the Caucasus, straight through to the only Nation in the entire world with his very own business card. She'd kept it tucked away in her sleeve just in case. She glanced at it once.

_Need some advice? The West always on your back? Sanctions keeping you down? For help with all of today's problems stemming from the stupidity of infidels, contact the Islamic Republic of Iran!_

Underneath that was his address. He lived right in the center of Tehran. She made it just by nightfall, her dress torn, her feet bleeding. Her hair was a mess and her milky pale skin was blotchy and red and still wet with tears. She pounded at his door, hard, forceful thumps delivered by a hand which did not know its own strength. "Iran!" she cried out his name in a broken voice; he was a stranger to her, but this Nation was the first since 1991 to offer her any sort of help or understanding. She had fallen from a ledge called Russia, and was now waiting to see if there would be a soft cloud for her to land on named Iran.

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, someone did answer the door, but it wasn't Iran. It was the hijabi woman from the day before. She was also in the League of Evil, if she wasn't mistaken. Syria, was it?

"Shit," the Muslim Nation mumbled under her breath; she held her arms out to Belarus and she nearly melted in them, too tired to carry on anymore. Syria rubbed her back and didn't complain when a new river of tears began to flow from Belarus, soaking her shirt. "Can you walk at all?" she whispered.

Belarus slowly shook her head; it was as if her legs were suddenly made of jelly. Syria looked over her shoulder and called out, "Libya! Get over here!"

The heartbroken Nation closed her eyes, swore that she lost consciousness for a moment before she felt herself being lifted up by strong, secure arms. She was carried away like the bride that she was, up the stairs and into a bed that was not hers. She drifted off to sleep.

**8: Weddings pt. 2**

The next morning she awoke to find her bedside lined with eight Nations, all staring at her intently. She tried to smile, but just like all the other times she just couldn't do it.

"Are you alright, Belarus?" Myanmar asked softly, concerned etched into her creased forehead and furrowed brows. "Do you need anything?"

She shook her head. A hand began to stroke her hair, and she looked over to see that it was Cuba. "It's good to see you're awake. You kinda scared us there for a while."

Belarus sat up a bit, opening her eyes wider, trying to show the others that she was okay. "There was no need to worry about me. Nothing bad had happened. I just passed out from exhaustion."

"Yeah, but from what?" Zimbabwe inquired.

"Belarus, be honest… yesterday, were you at a funeral?" North Korea asked seriously.

Her eyes widened, and she laughed shortly from the shock of being asked such an out-of-the-blue question. "No. Why would you think that?"

"Well… because. You were dressed all in white yesterday. And as white is the color of death, one can only assume—"

"No, no, no… I mean, perhaps in your culture white symbolizes death, but not in mine."

"So what does white symbolize to you?" Myanmar asked innocently.

Belarus remained quiet, and suddenly, she knew what it was to be Russia, to be asked questions that she didn't want to answer. She glanced up once at Cuba; what white symbolized to the both of them was perhaps the only thing their cultures had in common, but he glanced away once he saw her pleading look.

"Well?"

"It symbolizes… purity."

"Purity?"

"Yes. It's usually the color that brides will wear on their wedding days."

There was an air of confusion in the room for a moment, but only for a moment. Looks of realization passed over the lot of them almost simultaneously, and no one knew what to say. None of them, save for—

"Wait, you were supposed to get _married_ yesterday? Where the hell was I? Why wasn't I informed? Oh, yeah, keep everything a secret from me, poor old Iraq, like I'm some sort of dog or something. That's fucking low."

Soon, the others joined in as well.

"And where was my invitation?" North Korea seethed.

"Why am I always the last to find out about these things?" Libya mused, almost to himself.

"You know what? I don't care. Fuck your wedding if you didn't want me there so bad," Syria huffed.

"Not cool. Not cool _at all_. I thought we were bro's, Belarus," Zimbabwe laminated, shaking her head in sadly.

"Why didn't you tell me? Are you embarrassed of our friendship?" Myanmar whispered, eyes welling with tears.

Belarus shrank back; out of all things, she hadn't been expecting this kind of reaction. She looked up at her old friend Cuba, searching for support, but even he was offended. "I thought we were on the same page. If you finally convinced Russia to marry you, why would you keep that a secret from me, of all people?"

She turned away, and soon all the chatter and yelling became too much. She had always considered herself strong, but with all that had happened in the past few days, she wasn't so sure. The world just seemed like a mess now, everything was falling apart, and now it seemed as though she didn't even have the League of Evil on her side. She buried her face in her hands, and tried to shut it all out.

In the back of her mind she could barely register it, someone else's shouting. "Hey… hey…!"

Until he jumped up on the nightstand and began to clap and scream at the top of his lungs, "SHUT! UP!"

As always, Iran knew just what to do in order to grab attention. Belarus peaked out from behind her fingers. "'The hell, you guys! Fucking _look_ at her! Does she _look_ as if she just got married yesterday, with her dress torn, her hair a mess? Why would she come running to my house crying instead of spending the night with her husband? Just because she's dressed in white _does not_ mean that she just got married. What the hell is wrong with you guys! She's hurt, she's heartbroken, and she needs for the eight of us to be a soft place to land. That's what the League of Evil is all about, or have you all forgotten?"

The Middle Eastern Nation then turned to Belarus, to the former Soviet who just seemed so tired. Tired of the rejection, the anger, of love unreturned. "Belarus, I don't even know you, but I wanna. You just seem so beautiful and strong and smart. I've heard a lot about you, and I think you're awesome! Perfect, even. The whole deal. I can't think of anyone who wouldn't marry a girl who would stand by them through everything, defend them to the death, literally _kill_ for them. I've never met a girl like that, man, _never. _You're really one in a million! Whoever rejected you yesterday really doesn't know what they have."

Belarus looked up Iran, the rouge state who just seemed so confident and proud in all that he did. He wasn't particularly good-looking, and he was also the shortest Nation in the room, females included. But there was something about him that just made her want to gravitate towards him, an aura of greatness that could not be denied. He wasn't good looking, but he was definitely beautiful. He almost glowed. And if such a Nation thought so highly of her…

After that, the apologies came.

"Geez… I'm really sorry, Belarus," Cuba told her, rubbing that back of his head as he looked away awkwardly.

"Fuck, man, I'm sorry. With the way we just treated ya, I wouldn't be surprised if ya didn't invite us when ya actually _do_ get married." Iraq laminated, shaking his head.

"Belarus… forgive me? If you do, I promise I'll never be that stupid again." Libya grinned widely as he told her this, and somehow, Belarus didn't think he'd be able to keep up his half of the bargain.

"Shit, I'm an idiot. Sorry about that. We still bro's?" Zimbabwe asked. In response, Belarus smiled, perhaps thinking that she wouldn't be able to do much else. It acted as a yes.

"I should've noticed the sad look on your face. I'm so sorry," Myanmar whispered, taking her hand and stroking it.

Syria sighed, then shrugged offhandedly. "You know what? I wouldn't even invite someone like me to my wedding. I swear, sometimes I can be such an asshole…"

"Same here," North Korea admitted. "I apologize."

"You see, Belarus?" Iran asked, spreading his arms out. "This is what the League of Evil is. We aren't _really_ evil. We're just a band of ragtag Nations who happen to be hated by the whole damn world for marching to the beat of a different drum. How sad is that?" He jumped off of the nightstand. "It's gotten so bad that that _asshole, _that _waste_, that _infidel America, _had to group us into three's, essentially labeling us "bad", "worse" and "worst", and the world hasn't yet realized that _he_ is the evil one here, not us. And until they open their eyes and see him for what he truly is, and more importantly, us for what we truly are, then we have to stick together, the nine of us. _The League of Nation's Who Aren't Really Evil_, or _The League of Evil_ for short. Won't you join us?"

Belarus smiled weakly. "How can I resist?" Her smile melted away as she added. "It's unfortunate that people think of me as evil, just because of who I love, or who my boss is."

"That's right," Iran placed a hand on her shoulder. "You aren't evil, Belarus. You're just a girl who loves her big brother more than anything else in the world. And there is _nothing_ wrong with that." He stood upright and placed his hands on his hips. "What's wrong here is how he keeps rejecting you! Uh uh! Russia needs to wake up and recognize the good woman he has in front of him!"

And as the eight of them all agreed on the one thing she'd been preaching all along, she closed her eyes and thought that perhaps, friends weren't so overrated after all.

**9: At Last**

"I'm never going to be good enough for you, am I, big brother?

Russia glanced up at her from where he was sitting at his desk; up once and then quickly back down. As if he could barely stand the sight of her. It was all the answer she needed.

"Or, perhaps, you aren't good enough for me." She turned away from him, and smiled to herself. "You really need to get working on that. If we are to marry someday, then you should be at my level."

She was an expert on love. She burst with it. Carried it in her heart, along with so many other things, now. She was Belarus.

She was perfect, and deserved the world.

* * *

**A/N:** So, normally historical notes would go here, but there was, like, no history in this. Much more in the next chapter, though! ^_^


	2. Yangon

**A/N:** So here's Myanmar!

I refer to Myanmar as both "Myanmar" and "Burma" in this chapter. "Burma" is what Myanmar was called before 1988; "Myanmar" is the name that it is currently known by in most countries. So if I call her Burma, it's before 1988, and if it's Myanmar, then it's post 1988. Simple enough ^_^

Oh, and in response to Diclonius Lilium: R-really? :`D I thought that I'd get, like, the worst reviews for writing something like thi :O . Lol I like the idea of CubaxBelarus, and these Nations would make fantastic superhero's if it weren't for their douchebag boss'. And yes, we should incinerate them if they try to stray away from each other lol

**Disclaimer:** MYANMAR WOULD BE A CANON CHARACTER IF I OWNED HETALIA.

**Chapter 2: Yangon**

**10: Overwhelming**

When asked by the other Nations if the rumors were really true, if they really were married, Thailand would always tell the truth. He and Myanmar used to be a union. But not anymore.

When asked by the other Nations why they got divorced, the kind Nation would always rub the back of his head in a bit of a sheepish manner, and admit, "She was a little too much for me, I think."

**11: Roulette**

"Bengal, sweetheart, you have to be strong, or else Pakistan will win."

"No," almost-enclave shook his head, his eyes clenched shut, his face contorted in pain and fury. "He's too strong. This is too much."

The two of them, Burma and Bengal (though the world still knew him as East Pakistan) sat under a tree in Dhaka, a blood covered battlefield just in front of them. She sat leaning up against the tree trunk, damaged and hollow and almost burnt-down; he leaned against her, his head on her shoulder, still trembling from the onslaught of the battle he had just faced and barely survived. His eyes were wide and alive with the horror of all that was before him, his breathing was irregular and he continuously made small whimpering noises that came from the back of his throat—involuntary, he barely noticed them anymore. Burma tried to suppress her mounting annoyance with her smaller neighbor as she looked out impassively at the field before her desecrated with carnage, not very moved by it at all.

"I know that he's strong. But you're strong, too," she reassured him in her sweetest voice.

"N-N-No, I'm not," he sniffled, wiping his nose across his blood-covered arm. "I'm really not."

"Yes, you are. You were brave enough to declare independence from your scary big brother, right?" She grinned widely at him, baring all her teeth, and had he not been so pre-occupied with the pain he would have took noticed as to how wrong it was that she was smiling in such a situation. She brought up a bony hand and ran it across the side of his cheek, scooping up his tears in her large, sharp fingernails painted blood red. "You're so sweet and cute, you know. I don't know how Pakistan could have done this to you."

His face bunched up awkwardly, as if he were trying to smile, but with all that was happening it seemed as though his face and muscles had forgotten how. "Thanks," was all he managed to say. "But big brother doesn't respond to those kinds of things anymore. He's just so mad at me…"

Burma looked away from Bengal's face, her eyes drifting towards his arm, and she frowned deeply. She noticed how he held onto his upper arm desperately, fingers digging into skin as if his very life depended on it. She perhaps would have thought that he had been shot there, if it wasn't for the fact that no blood seemed to be leaking out from where his hand was. But blood still flowed freely from Bengal, not from his arm but from his shoulder. Burma forced a smile, and asked in her sweetest and most innocent tone, "What's wrong with your arm?"

Bengal jumped up slightly, startled by the question. "I, um…" he trailed off, his eyes darting as if trying to conjure up some lie to tell a Nation who already knew the truth. She batted her eyelashes at him, and poked his cheek. "Don't lie! I know there's something wrong!" she warned him in a sing-song voice.

The smaller of the two sighed and allowed his eyes to wander away from the woman next to him and up at the sky, painted grey in all his grief. "A soldier," he whispered, "found me hiding in one to the little huts deeper inside the forest," he pointed over his shoulder for effect, never taking his eyes off of the sky. "And he dragged me out by the hair and started kicking and stomping on me, and he was waving his gun around him in face." Bengal frowned deeply. "This guy wasn't like the other soldiers on big brothers side. This one was really, _really_ scary, the way he leered at me and laughed when I started crying and telling him to stop. He beat me up till I couldn't get away, and then he started touching me and rubbing me," the boy shuttered, renewed tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. "I knew what he was about to do, so I tricked him. It's something that I did sometimes to Pakistan when, I wanted him to stop yelling at me: I looked up and past him, over his shoulder, and put on this really happy look on my face. I donno," he shrugged, "I guess I can be a good actor when I really need to be. He saw the happy look and probably thought that some help came or something. He turned around and while he was distracted, I snatched his gun from his hand and shot him. I was aiming for his chest, but I got him in the arm instead."

Night was falling. Deeper into the forest, some of the animals were beginning to awaken. The field before them was still with lifelessness, and Bengal continued.

"I pulled myself up and started to run away, but he caught me with his good arm. He grabbed me right here," he pointed to his forearm. "and I tried to get away but his grip was strong. We played tug of war like that for a bit, and then I felt this little 'pop!' in my arm, like something had just been taken apart. I screamed really loud and I guess that startled him, so he let go and I ran away."

Burma nodded, the smile still plastered onto her face, as if her face were that of a china doll, the continuous smile painted on, prevalent in any situation. "So, he dislocated your shoulder?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Okay." Burma promptly rose, startling the boy next to her. "Get up." He looked up at her, helpless, and she realized that because of his predicament, he couldn't rise on his own. She bent down and took him by his upper arms, pulling him up. "I'm going to take care of it, young one," she told him in a soothing tone, so soft and so gentle that he trusted her.

Whether that trust was ill placed would be a matter left up in the air. Burma took firm hold of his dislocated arm, and tugged it down and away from his shoulder socket—

Bengal screamed with such ferocity that specks of blood flew from his mouth—

And then shoved it back upwards again, into the socket, popping it back into place. Bengal fell down to his knees, panting, his mouth open as if he wanted to scream again but simply couldn't muster up the strength to. His eyes were clouded over in pain, and he fell forward, his head touching the ground as if he were about to pray. Burma grinned down at the boy. "All better. The pain should be gone in about a week or two."

"Why…" Bengal panted, "Why would you do that?"

"Do what? _I_ didn't do anything. That soldier was responsible for your pain. And do you know who he probably got that whole 'rape and plunder' attitude from? Your big brother." She crossed her arms, looking down at the small someday-Nation, her features harder and more defined now that he was no longer looking at her. "And if you ever want to change your name from 'East Pakistan' to 'Bangladesh' for real, you're going to have to have the same mentality. Just remember the pain you went through today, and when you finally find Pakistan, when you have the chance…" she smiled, ridged and tight, her eyes round as the moon. She was no longer smiling for his benefit, but for her own, and this smile was far more natural. She repeated, short and abrupt, "When you have the chance, _kill him!"_

**12: Father**

She couldn't remember her actual father, so General Aung San was the one to fill that place in her heart. She supposed, as far as humans went, she would miss him the most…

Myanmar took out a photo of that man's successor, his _true _daughter, Aung San Suu Kyi. In it, she had a reserved smile on her face, but her eyes shone with the determination, wit, rebelliousness and intelligence that made her famous, got her in so much trouble with the military to begin with. She wore flowers in her hair. Myanmar closed her eyes and held the photo close to her chest, and if she listened closely enough, she could hear Aung San Suu Kyi's voice, speaking Burmese and Japanese and French and English. She could hear Bach on the piano. She could hear strong speeches about freedom and democracy.

_No matter what you need, I'll never be far away._

Tears stung like daggers in the Nation's eyes, but she willed them away. Aung San Suu Kyi was in Myanmar, the young Nation could feel her presence, but she was locked away in her own home. House arrest. So close and yet so far.

"You're coming out soon," Myanmar whispered to the photo, imagining her words carrying across the roaring wind and to her _true_ leader's compound in Yangon. "Thein Sein, my boss, he promised me, and I know that he's broken a lot of promises before but I can tell that this time he's going to follow through. He's gonna keep his promise, and I'm so, so happy that I'm going to get to see your face again. Watch, I'm going to be the first one at your gate, and I'm gonna be the first person that you see as a free woman. I've missed you so much." Myanmar choked on the lump in her throat, and she repeated, "_So much._ One day, I know it, you'll come through." She took the photo away from her face and smiled. "I can't wait till the day you're my boss."

**13: Lullaby**

Burma held Cambodia in her arms as they sat on the floor, slowly rocked forwards and backwards as she hummed quietly, no tune in particular. Her tiny neighbor had fallen limp in her arms, and Burma would not look at him. She didn't know if he had fallen asleep or fallen dead, and although Burma had always been the type to face things head-on, she didn't know what she would do if her adorable little Cambodia had just died in her arms. She cursed herself for being so weak.

She hated Cambodia's boss, perhaps even more than she hated her own boss; Pol Pot made the leader of Burma seem like a saint, and in all her years the Union of Burma had never encountered anyone so evil. It was beyond horrible to commit genocide against any race or group, but to try and destroy your own people was not only evil and demented but also simply lacked in logic. The more she thought of that man the more confused she became. She could only imagine the mental strain that Cambodia must've put himself through trying to piece it all together.

She ran her fingers though his shiny, blue-black hair. Bent down and kissed his temple. Whispered with the dementia of it all thick in throat, "What has he done to you?"

The question carried though the still air of the moon and out the window, through the jungles and the leaves and the life until it settled upon all of Cambodia the land, where thousands still continued to die.

**14: Knuckles**

She could fight just as well as any man, and proved this time and time again to male countries in her life. None of them had ever tried to hurt her in particular (save for England and Japan) but she never hesitated to use force against them. Thailand in particular had an array of scars to prove it.

Burma's knuckles were a battlefield of bumps and scars, blemished and ugly; none of the wounds on her knuckles ever got the chance to heal, but even so, she was blessed. After all, she could punch holes into walls and force the sand out of punching bags, and defend herself just as well as anyone else. Since when could a woman do that?

**15: Overturn**

In 1989, Burma's government was overtaken by her military, and martial law—emergency law— was established. The new military junta was just as strict and severe as her last government, if not more so, and before long there were paintings glorifying the military on every street corner and people were screaming and there were slaves and they locked away her father's daughter and—

And Myanmar—perhaps the only good thing, they renamed her Myanmar—spent less time outside and more times indoors, thinking. All her life, she had always sided with her bosses, instead of her people, and as a result she had never been happy because she had to be something that she wasn't. All her life, she denied herself: she denied her women freedom, her children rights, her men rest. She turned a blind eye to them all and to herself because her bosses, they all surely knew best, would not lead her astray, and—

Look where trusting them had gotten her. She was still a dictatorship, even after all these years.

And so, Myanmar made a decision. She decided that she would no longer ally herself with her bosses. She wanted to be what her people wanted, because _they_ knew best, and in doing so she aligned herself with who she truly was.

As a result, her knuckles began to heal.

**16: Sisters**

Zimbabwe was tall, Belarus was short. Zimbabwe had short hair, Belarus had long hair. Zimbabwe was sane, Belarus was not. Zimbabwe was African, Belarus was European. They were opposites in every way, but Myanmar supposed that that was what she liked the most about them. They clashed so much sometimes and that was fun to watch, but there were also times where they could be so kind and sisterly to each other, and the three of them would be a trio of sisters from all across the world. Myanmar liked that best of all.

"Okay, okay, so once upon a time, I got so pissed at my boss that I just snapped and started cursing him out…" Zimbabwe began.

"What did you say?" Belarus asked.

"I was telling him that he needed to grow a full mustache and stop being such a bastard, you know, stuff like that. He threw a lampshade at me—"

The Belarusian's eyes popped out of her head. "Wait, he threw a _lampshade—"_

"Hell yes. A fucking lampshade to the head, and then he told me that if I ever talked to him like that again, he would shave my head in the middle of the night and make a small pillow for himself stuffed with my hair." Zimbabwe scratched the back of her head. "I donno. At least that's how I remember it. Your boss ever do some crazy shit like that?"

Belarus thought for a moment, before her eyes lit up in remembrance. "Oh, yes. He did once. His policies were beginning to grate on my nerves, so I participated in a protest against him. The police came, it got ugly… he sent one of his aids to bail me out of jail, and then warned me that if I ever tried something like that again, that big brother would look at them and feel sad that I was disobeying the authority of my boss, and he would never want to marry me." She shuttered at the thought. "It was my first and last protest."

Zimbabwe turned to Myanmar. "What about you, girl?

Myanmar shrugged. "Myanmar's boss is both more ridiculous than Zimbabwe's, and an even bigger liar than Belarus'. He once told me that if I truly supported my lady of democracy, Aung San Suu Kyi, that she would burn the country into the ground, and all the Burmese people would starve." Myanmar laughed shortly. "I don't know. He's mean and cynical like that."

"Mine too," Zimbabwe added in. "But hey, they were good for one thing. They fucked shit up so bad for us with the other Nations, that it got us grouped together. If it wasn't for them, we wouldn't have met."

"I agree." Belarus nodded. "I still want my boss out of office, however. Perhaps not through protests, so big brother won't blame his ousting on me. Maybe he can be voted out of office… or better yet, maybe some lovely person can take him away from this world permanently," Belarus murmured the tail end of her sentence, an evil glint in her eye.

Myanmar clasped her hands together. "Well, I don't know about either of you, but I can really only picture one person being my boss if the general is ousted."

"Your democracy lady?" Zimbabwe smiled. "I'm always up for a lady in power. I've got a few opposition leaders myself... most of the top dogs are men, but there are some women thrown in there, too."

"It's all the young people," Belarus murmured to herself. "All the young people who don't remember the Soviet Union, don't know how amazing Russia is. The only reason that I sometimes oppose them myself is because a lot of them not only want democratic reform, but want me to break ties with big brother, just like Ukraine did." She chuckled darkly. "No way. No way in hell will that ever happen. Big brother is _mine_."

Zimbabwe snorted indignantly. "Damn right. Your youngsters need to recognize the awesomeness that would be the Union of Belarus and Russia."

Belarus looked up, a twinkle in her eye, one of the rare ones that was not laced with malice. "Of course. And your people need to realize how amazing the Union of Zimbabwe and Botswana would be."

With that, the usually upbeat Zimbabwe suddenly seemed flustered. She chuckled a bit. "Uh… yeah. Maybe someday, not now."

"You better invite me to your wedding."

"No doubt. You and Myanmar would be the first two to get invitations."

It was the one good thing about being ruled by a tyrant. It led her to the two of them.

**17: Sunshine**

There was something about the change in Myanmar that had her going from hard as metal to soft as clouds. To those who didn't know Burma, they never would have ever guessed the strong spirit that dwelled inside of the tiny woman, and sometimes she would laugh at how the only thing that seemed gave her old facade away was the faint scar that ran from the corner of her left eye and downward, that one tear that had been too much and cut through her soft skin.

Sometimes, she would cry alone, because her people were crying and if she allowed herself, she could feel everything. Most Nations held these emotions at bay, but Myanmar liked to let them flow out from time to time, because the way she saw it, it was all her fault and she deserved to suffer. They were hurting because of _her_ mistakes, _her_ ruthlessness, _her_ boss. There were some things that no one can be shielded from, but Myanmar had been exposed to an obscenely wide variety of life's harsh realities. There was nothing she could do to stop them, but at the same time it was all her fault.

But the next morning she would always be smiling and laughing, as if nothing was wrong at all, her face bright like sunshine. And for that, she was incredibly strong.

**18: Path**

It wasn't democracy that hurt her; it was learning how to breathe again. Perhaps, Aung San Suu Kyi could show her how?

* * *

**A/N:** Quite a bit of history with this one… let's get to it.

10: Myanmar and Thailand, a union? Yes, back throughout history a lot of what is currently Myanmar was part of Siamese (Thai) territory. You could maybe look at it as though Myanmar simply lived in Thailand's house for a bit, but… I just couldn't get the idea of the two of them being married out of my head :P That was more a character device, I suppose.

11: The Bangladeshi War of Liberation: When India was partitioned in 1947, the result was the newly formed West and East Pakistan (modern-day Pakistan and Bangladesh, respectively). Obviously, the larger West Pakistan oppressed the tiny East Pakistan, and in 1971 East Pakistan declared independence, as Bangladesh. West Pakistan was not pleased, and launched a massive offence against Bangladesh that blighted the small Nation. It's probable that Bangladesh would have been forced to stay part of Pakistan if it weren't for India intervening on Bangladesh's behalf.

Anyway. Myanmar shares a small boarder with Bangladesh, and openly supported Bengali independence from Pakistan. Myanmar is quite the complex character, in that she isn't at all what she appears to be. I threw in some hints there, like her severe features, constant smile, "her long, sharp fingernails painted blood red", and in the very blunt way that she deals with Bangladesh's injury.

Oh, and I also refer to Bangladesh as "Bengal" because, firstly, that's the name of the people who live there (Bengali's) and secondly, because this took place during the war, it didn't quite seem right to call him East Pakistan _or_ Bangladesh, so Bengal just fit.

12: General Aung San is considered to be the "father" of the modern state of Myanmar, as he helped liberate the country from both from Japanese troops during WWII and from the English, who colonized Myanmar. He was killed in 1946, just before independence. His daughter, Aung San Suu Kyi, is… quite something. She studied abroad and lived a lot of her life outside of Myanmar, but was compelled to come back after the socialist regime fell in 1988. She started her own political party and ran for office in 1989, and won an overwhelming majority, but these elections were rigged to allow the military to stay in power. Obviously, people were pissed; there were lots of protests, and the military decided to use Aung San Suu Kyi as a scapegoat, pinning all the unrest on her. As a result, she spent stints in prison before finally being sentenced to house arrest, solitary confinement. When given the chance to leave Myanmar to go visit her dying husband, she refused, fearing that she wouldn't be allowed back into the country. She was released last year, and almost immediately after she left her home, she gave a speech to all of her supporters, vowing to continue to work for democracy in Myanmar. She's widely popular in her country, she's known as "the lady of democracy", and if Myanmar were to someday actually become a democracy, it wouldn't be too out-there to say that Aung San Suu Kyi would probably be Myanmar's head of state.

13: Pol Pot was the communist leader in Cambodia, from roughly 1976-1981. This guy was _really_ insane; personally, just looking at his pictures and reading about all that he's done gives me chills. This guy had it in his head that in order to create a true communist society, then all educated Cambodians (even if it was very simple, elementary-level education) needed to be exterminated. He forced all those living in Cambodia's urban centuries to move to the country and live on collective farms; many of those who weren't systematically killed died of starvation. To this day, there are land mines and mass graves in Cambodia that still have yet to be discovered. This is the Cambodian Genocide.

14/15: More character centric… I'd like to think of Myanmar and Burma being different in personality, in some ways. Burma would have always given into her boss', and as a result would've had to have been strong and violent, because that was what they wanted her to be. But in 1988, with the coup and that name change, then Myanmar would have seen the error in listening to her boss' rather than her people, and she would have become much more docile (despite the fact that as I type this, Myanmar is still a military dictatorship). I think that, Burma being border-line yandere would have been a result of trying to be what her boss' wanted her to be, while Myanmar, finally being true to herself, would finally recover all that lost sanity (give credit to the opposition for that ^_^).

16: Just some _Outpost of Tyranny_ love :D (What was that? Belarus actually behaving like a normal person? :O)

17: Myanmar angst. She feels guilty for all that's happening to her people, so she lets herself feel the pain when most nations don't, as a sort of punishment to herself…

Myanmar has some of the world human rights records in the world. Myanmar is made up not only of the Burmese people, but also a lot of ethic tribes as well, and is arguably the most ethnically diverse Nation in Southeast Asia. However, most of these ethnic minorities are stomped on by the government. When I was looking up the other countries involved in _The League of Evil, _I found a balance of things like government, controversy, culture, diplomatic relations; but with Myanmar, a good chunk of what I found was about her shitty human rights record, and abuse towards minorities.

18: Um… hope for the future? Like I said, If Myanmar becomes a democracy and this woman is still alive, then Aung San Suu Kyi would probably be either the prime minister or president of Myanmar. And I think that democracy would take some getting used to for our young embodiment here, but obviously, something she'd welcome with open arms.

Annnnnd that's it. Next up is Zimbabwe.


	3. Harare

**A/N:** Hmm, Zimbabwe ^_^

Not much of an opening note here. Apologies for the lateness. Historical stuff is at the bottom, as always.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Hetalia, Zimbabwe would be _way _more relevant than England.

**Chapter 3: Harare **

**19: Happiness**

Once upon a time, a long time ago in sub-Saharan Africa, there was a girl named South Rhodesia.

She was no ordinary girl. She was a Nation, though due to her circumstance she could hardly wear that title. The word 'colony' fit her more accurately, because she didn't own her own house and she spent most of her days cooking and cleaning for people who weren't hers, for Nations that she didn't like because of an ill-justified sense of superiority over her. She always served them with a smile, but from the very beginning she knew that it wasn't fair. Her heart would burn with frustration, but what could she do? If she tried to run away…

Lots of colonies tried to run away from the Great Britain, and each time one of the brothers—England, Scotland, Ireland or Wales—would come and drag them back by any means, and South Rhodesia had already seen too many people die. She didn't want to provoke any of them, so she wore a painted-on smile and served as the bread basket for her region, and didn't ask any questions.

Then, one day, she met Bechuanaland.

"Hi, I'm Bechuanaland," the other colony whispered, holding out her hand timidly in the nature of a handshake. But South Rhodesia didn't rise to meet that expectation; she was too captivated by the girl's deep brown eyes, her round face, pretty lips, lighter-than-normal hair. South Rhodesia stared, captivated, and Bechuanaland's mounting nervousness had no effect on her. She never met anyone so beautiful in her life.

When she came home that night, she grabbed the broom and began to sweep the floor, twirling and dancing around as Bechuanaland's sweet face and voice resonated in her mind. She sang loudly and out of tune.

"Draw a circle, that's the earth! Draw a circle, that's the earth! Draw a circle, that's the earth! I'm South Rho-de-si-a!"

"Would ya shut the fuck up in there? I'm tryin' to get some sleep, and all yer singing is makin' that more than a lil' hard to do!"

South Rhodesia flinched upon hearing Scotland's shrill scream. She had forgotten that he had come over for a "visit" (more likely to supervise her and her twin sister, North Rhodesia). The young girl clutched onto her broom handle until her knuckles turned a light coffee color as tears of frustration involuntarily gathered at the corners of her eyes. So what was it—she couldn't even sing now?

_But, but, I'm happy! I wanna sing because I'm happy!_ She wanted to tell him, but did not dare. Her entire house smelled like alcohol, and the last thing South Rhodesia wanted to do was provoke a drunken Scotland. Consequences would be severe at best.

_I made a new friend today. Her name is Bechuanaland. She's so so so pretty! She has such pretty eyes, and a nice smile, and she makes my tummy feel all tingly whenever I'm close to her. I hope I can see her again tomorrow!_

She knew that there was a good chance that she would. South Rhodesia continued to sing—not belting out her happiness as before, but not whispering, either. The young colony was usually quiet and withdrawn, but not anymore. Not after seeing her. When she looked at Bechuanaland, she felt something. In her stomach, her heart, and it made her want to smile and laugh—

Was this what the British called '_happiness_'? Did she even deserve such a thing? After thinking about it for a bit, South Rhodesia couldn't say for sure if she did, but either way, she didn't care. She'd found it and would let her go for nothing.

**20: Identity**

South Rhodesia combed out her long, long hair. It had always been long, as far as she could remember. All her life, back when she was just a colony, and maybe even before that, too. She may have converted to Christianity, but a small part of her still believed in past lives. She'd always been complimented on her hair, how beautiful and shiny it was, at least, "for an African girl".

She growled just at the memory of it, at how many times she'd been told those exact four words. And the little colony that she was, she never stood up to this, to any of the racism she'd always faced. South Rhodesia, the British colony: she was weak, she was helpless, she was stupid, she should be pitied, she wasn't worth anything.

She smiled that crooked smile of hers. _And Zimbabwe? She will be _none_ of those things._

Knife in hand, she cut it all off, every last inch. Her sister and neighbors all complained about how masculine she looked without her hair. The fact was, Zimbabwe had never possessed the graceful aura of femininity anyway, but her hair had been the one saving grace that still proved that she was still somewhat conforming. But now she looked even less feminine than ever, and that never sat well with any of the Nations she was surrounded by, by most of the world's Nations in general.

In fact, the only one who hadn't had a mean comment for her had been Robert Mugabe. The man who had lead the revolution of sorts against white rule, the one responsible for Zimbabwe's emancipation. He didn't complain about how masculine she looked. He just smiled a bit at her and told her, "Nice haircut," as if it were nothing, which was exactly what Zimbabwe wanted.

He was to be her first true boss, and Zimbabwe kind of smiled at the thought of having a boss like Robert Mugabe, in the beginning. She could already tell that he would be the typical African strongman, uncompromising and iron fisted, clever and stubborn and so very, very proud. Right from the start, he'd promised her a lot of things. He promised that under his watch, she would prosper. She would flourish. He promised her that her people would be happy—and when he said her people he really meant _her people_, not England's people who came over and somehow managed to acquire the majority of the wealth in a country where they were not welcomed. Zimbabwe supposed that it was that last promise that meant the most to her, the one that won her over. She allied herself over to him then, and allowed him to rule as he pleased.

That was in 1980. Thirty-one years later, she still waits, with that crooked smile of hers, for Mugabe's promises to fall through.

**21: Invader**

Zimbabwe climbed over the fence that separated her home from Namibia's, clutching at the wire with the skill of an expert. Once she made it to the top, she brought both of her legs onto the other side and allowed herself to drop in Namibia's back yard. She mad her way across the yard and picked open the lock of her back door; it gave way easily to her, as if welcoming in an old friend.

She wasn't there to rob or to steal; she only needed a place to rest. Things in her house had gotten so bad that she knew she couldn't stay there. Maybe her people were right in all wanting to leave her, and the truth was the poverty-stricken Nation no longer blamed them at all. If she weren't the Nation itself, she knew that she too would have abandoned ship long ago. But as a Nation, she could not leave. She was bounded to the land and had to live on it, fight for it, and—so be it—even die for it if that was her fate. Zimbabwe knew that she couldn't really leave. Her runaway was little more than a vacation.

In truth, she wasn't going to stay in Namibia, not only because the young girl didn't seem to like her very much, but also because Namibia wasn't much better off than she was, perhaps even less developed; her urban centers were nearly non-existent. Zimbabwe's plan was to go to South Africa, because he was perhaps the only one who still welcomed her into his house with open arms. But for now, she would rest in Namibia's house.

It was almost sad, how running away had become a regular occurrence for Zimbabwe. She always came back, needed to come back, but even so, no Nation should ever feel the need to run from their boss, or feel as though their problems are too big to be solved—even in her state, Zimbabwe knew this truth to be absolute, and she held onto it like a precious treasure that stood as a pillar as the walls crashed down around her. She shouldn't have to feel this way. She was not like Myanmar—she knew that it wasn't her fault.

She fell asleep with no problem but awoke suddenly when Namibia's signature wooden club came crashing down on Zimbabwe's head, and the latter Nation ran and ran until she ran into safer arms.

**22: Paranoia**

Zimbabwe rounded the corner, though she heard a noise, but found nothing.

A crash. She ran out of her room and into the next—she had always been the confrontational type, the one to run right into disaster instead of away from it. But when she got there, it was only a bare room.

A scream in the night. It sounded like Botswana. Oh, no… not Botswana. Anyone but her. Zimbabwe ran right to where she could've sworn she heard it, but…

But she was mistaken, once again.

The sound of feet pounding. People laughing and racial slurs. Pained cries. Was South Africa being trampled on by his own minority again?

Zimbabwe turned the corner, they she was sure she could hear the brutal suppression, but as always—

But then the thunder called and Victoria Falls cried out. Men laughing cruelly, her pretty twin sister whimpering. Zimbabwe's stomach flipped and she ran past the northern border, all the way to Lusaka. She climbed up the side of her house using vines and broken plasters of wood, peered into Zambia's room—

And there she was, asleep in her bed, no leering men around her and completely at peace.

A blast. Pain in her chest. Harare.

She ran back and sprinted through her capital, looking for the attack. But everything appeared to be fine. Her children were asleep, safe and sound.

Someone was shouting. It sounded like a man. One in particular. Oh, no—was someone trying to assassinate her boss? No! He still owed her a shitload of promises!

She ran all the way to his house, kicked in the door, where his fully armed guards were waiting, their weapons all aimed at their own country. His guards were keeping her away, but… why? Wasn't the man they were supposed to be protecting in trouble? Why weren't they helping him? Unless…

_A military coup, of course! _

"I'll take you all on with my bare hands!" Zimbabwe snarled, raising her fists against her boss' guards. The cocked her guns, and she almost laughed at their ignorance. They couldn't kill her with their silly ammunition. Had they forgotten who she was?

"Zim_bab_we!" She looked up, towards the top of the staircase, where Robert Mugabe stood. He had his arms crossed and looked more than a little annoyed.

He also appeared to be completely okay, in both body and mind.

She, however, was not.

**23: Billionaire**

"Hold shizz on a stick! Am I really looking at what I think I'm looking at?"

Swaziland sat there, in her hands Zimbabwe's newest creation: the billion dollar note. Her brother, Lesotho, sat next to her, staring at the bill just as intently, his mouth slightly hanging open in wonder. "Zimbabwe must be so super rich!" Swaziland exclaimed.

Their elder brother, South Africa, shook his head gravely. "No, guys. A Nation having something like this is never a good sign. It… it's almost like a death sentence, really."

"How is that?"

South Africa took the bill from Swaziland and examined it. "Well, put in simplest terms, the billionth dollar is like a big, neon yellow sign that reads 'hyperinflation'. That means that the government is printing more money than they can back up with gold or silver. In that case, more money that's printed, the less valuable it becomes." He handed the bill back to his sister. "I'll bet you anything that, with this billionth dollar bill, all we'd be able to buy would be, I don't know, maybe a ham sandwich and some soda."

"Wow? Really?" Both enclaves looked down at the bill, this time with solemn looks on their faces. "That's actually pretty sad. Poor Zimbabwe…"

**24: Herstory**

"Zimbabwe," Syria began, crossing her arms and looking said African dead in the eye, "I want you to tell me about your life."

"My life?" Zimbabwe looked off for a moment at some spot on the floor, not really knowing what to say. Few ever asked for her serious opinion, and _no one_ had ever asked her about her about her life. She knew what her life was, but had never been asked to articulate it and she barely knew what order it went in anymore; the further back she thought, the less of a chronological hold she had on what happened. She glanced back up at Syria, the Arab woman still sitting before her with that expectant look in her eyes. "Well… what do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"Where should I begin?"

"At the beginning."

"The beginning?" Zimbabwe only had to think for a moment before recalling her first truly important memory. "I remember, I was laying down on the ground, on a bed of leaves, just waking up. My sister Zambia was curled up next to me, her arms were wrapped around me and she was still asleep. We were out in an open field, no trees anywhere, which is why when I noticed that we were surrounded by shadows, I knew something was up. I opened my eyes up real fast and took a look around, and saw four guys standing above us. Grown men. And I started to scream because they weren't normal: their hair was yellow and they had _white shin_. At the time, I'd never seen such a thing, and always always _always_, dad told us that the devil had white skin. I thought that the devil had come for me and my sister."

Syria narrowed her eyes inquisitively. "Your dad…?"

"Oh, yeah. My dad, his name was Matabeleland. He was really strong and smart, and in his heyday, before me and Zam were born, he had his own Empire and everything!" Zimbabwe's smile beamed with nostalgia as she continued. "Yeah, he was a good dad. On the day that those white guys came, my screaming woke Zambia up and we ran away from them, all the way to where our dad was supposed to be. He was on a decline and had gone from this huge Empire to a waning Nation on the verge of collapse. We both knew that he was sick, but we were also certain that he would get better, because that's what dad's do, right? They survive when they get sick so they can stay with their daughters." Zimbabwe's stopped as her eyes clouded over in memory. Her smile fell from her face very slowly, almost painfully, and for a moment she looked as though she might be sick.

"Zimbabwe—?

"So when we got to his house, our house," the poorer Nation quickly interrupted. "We hide behind a nearby bush, because outside of his house there were some more white people, standing out front like they were guards or something. We _really_ started crying then, because these men, these _devils_ just got our dad and now, we were alone. I may have been able to live with thinking that he had just disappeared, or been killed and buried somewhere in one of the forests, but then by dad's old guards came out the door carrying him on a makeshift stretcher, a white blanket of death over him, with this huge stain of blood hovering over where his chest was, like when a storm comes out and the grey of it blocks out the sky…"

Both Nations remained quiet, perhaps as an unofficial moment of silence for Matabeleland. Then, Syria asked her, "Who killed your father?"

"Those white guys from before, the ones who stood above me and my sister. Great Britain."

Syria laughed shortly, not at the death of Zimbabwe's father, but at the obvious answer that she hadn't seen. "Those four were always fucking shit up back then."

"Don't I know it!" Zimbabwe smiled, weakly. "Later on they caught us and told us that our names weren't our own anymore. Zambia and I were renamed North and South Rhodesia, respectively, after the British man who had orchestrated the takeover, Cecil Rhodes. And just like that, I was a colony, a servant."

"So what was that like?"

"It sucked?" Zimbabwe's smile grew despite that. "Though, Zambia was with me the entire time, so it wasn't that bad. Also, I gained a sort of unofficial family. South Africa was like a big brother to me. Namibia, after England gained her as a war prize in WWI, was like a little sister. Swaziland and Lesotho were the babies of the family. Botswana… she was never really a sister," Zimbabwe grinned, "but she has a special place in my heart. All in all, with them around it sometimes wasn't so bad, when we weren't being yelled at and dragged off into wars that we had no interest in." Zimbabwe shook her head. "If it weren't for Europe taking over everything in Africa except Ethiopia, there would have been no "world wars", they just would have been Europe's wars. I swear, that continent up north has always been nothing but a source of pestilence!"

Zimbabwe's bitter sentiment towards Europe was thick in her throat, a barely-concealed secret and Syria nearly flinched. The hatred nearly radiated off of the other Nation's skin. She continued, "The seven of us were lucky, during WWII, because we were so far down south that the Axis never got the chance to invade us. But besides that, even though they were the winners of WWII, Great Britain went on a decline after that, all the British colonies leaving one after another."

"When did you leave?"

Zimbabwe thought for a moment, like she was unsure. "… well, I like to think that I truly gained my independence in 1980, when my current boss took over. But if you ask Great Britain or any of my white Zimbabweans, they'll say 1962, because that's the year that I got my first real boss. But the thing is, the guy was white, and white people had all the advantages and actual Africans were still seen as 'less than', so that wasn't real independence. I was basically in South Africa's shoes for the first 18 years of my so-called 'independence'."

"So what happened that gave way to your current boss?"

"Okay, so obviously, my people were pissed about being ruled by some white guy who was out of tune with the majority of his population. Insurgency groups popped up, it got a little ugly… finally, they forced my then-boss to submit to elections against a couple of true Africans. And… well, Robert Mugabe won." Zimbabwe crossed her arms and grinned widely. "Man, I gotta say, that was just about the happiest day of my life. The future seems endless."

Syria smiled a bit. "I know what that feels like." The Arab lowered her gaze. "But, humans only serve to let down in the end, don't they?"

"Right you are. I'd like to think that my boss had good intentions with what he did next," the African sighed. "First thing he did was ban all political parties besides his own. Then… well, back then, the white minority owned almost all of my land. Well, my boss revoked all of that land from them and redistributed it to the black majority, under state ownership. T-that fucked up my economy real bad. My treasury began to print out more money that could be backed up, and the value of my dollar nose-dived… still continues to nose-dive."

"Does it hurt?"

Zimbabwe shrugged. "Not as much as it did at first. Like, when I first began to feel the effects of it, I could hardly stand, but I've gotten used to it. Now I just feel nauseous and fatigued all the time. My boss keeps telling me that I have to suffer before prosperity comes, but… it sucks, waiting for it. It's taking too long."

"Boss'," Syria sniggered. "Sometimes… they just don't get the meaning of… urgency."

"They don't." Zimbabwe agreed, and her eyes became a well of sadness. "Can't he see that I'm starving here?"

**25: Denial**

_I am not a tyrannical state. Or a dictatorship. Nor am I a strict authoritarian. Why was I put on this list?_

"It's Condoleezza Rice's fault. She is in chains. She put us on this list to heed her white master's call."

This was what her boss had told her, but somehow Zimbabwe knew that there had to be more to it than that. Did America really look at her and see despotism? Repression? Absolute rule? Zimbabwe frowned. If this was what America saw when he looked at her, then it was only inevitable that everyone else would begin to think of her in that way as well. America's reach was so incredibly long and his influence was so great, that—

_And now they are all breathing down my neck. South Africa. Malawi. Mozambique. My own twin, Zambia. Even little Namibia. They all hate me, but they are mistaken. I am _not_ a dictatorship!_

"What makes dictatorship, Zimbabwe?"

Botswana was the one who asked this. Everyone around Zimbabwe was taking, talking, talking, and her world was made of static noise, but somehow Botswana's voice was able to rise above it all and compute in Zimbabwe's brain. She smiled.

"A dictatorship is a country headed by an autocratic ruler—you know, a boss—who rules absolutely and without opposition, and often exercises his power brutally and oppressively."

"And you don't think that your boss is a dictator?"

Zimbabwe laughed. "Of course not! A dictator… a dictator doesn't really care about his country. A dictator only cares for himself, and my boss isn't like that at all. He cares about me. He promised me so many things, Botswana, _so many things_, things that I _never thought could happen for me._ He promised me, Botswana. He promised! He is not a dictator, and I am not a dictatorship!"

Zimbabwe was sobbing by this point, and not even Botswana showing a rare sign of affection by hugging her could not put her at ease. And all she could say was:

"He promised me."

**26: Girl Talk**

"You know, I usually don't like white people, like, at all. But you're all right, Belarus!"

The European Nation looked up at Zimbabwe, craning her neck up so that she may look the much-taller Nation in the eye. The corners of her lips twitched upward for a brief moment—the only gesture she made that foretold the secret happiness that she gained from Zimbabwe's compliment. But then, she remembered herself, and her brows furrowed. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, I wouldn't lie about something like that. I know good people when I see them. You aren't like the rest of them."

Belarus tore her gaze away from Zimbabwe then. Arms crossed over her chest, she grumbled, "I'm proud to be European."

"Sure you are. And I'm proud to be African. But just because you have pride in a group that you belong to doesn't necessarily mean that you're just like everyone else in that group. Trust me, Belarus, you're _super _different."

Belarus hadn't ever had a reason to spend an extended period of time with any of the African Nations. Of course, she knew all of them, some better than others; but she'd never really sat down and spoken to one of them as she currently was with Zimbabwe. And because of this, she couldn't say that same to the other female, that she was different from all the other African Nations, because frankly, Belarus wasn't too sure if she was or not.

"Hey, Belarus?" Zimbabwe suddenly piped up, interrupting Belarus' train of thought.

"Yes?"

"I hear that you want to marry that Russia guy. He's your brother, right?"

Belarus smiled then, the facial expression cold and plastic and intimidating, and it would've scared anyone else but Zimbabwe. "He is."

"Oh, that's cool. How's that going for you?"

"Big brother is currently in denial about his desire to become one with me, though I do believe that I am making some progress. The other day, Cuba braided my hair and brother played with them for a few blissful minutes…"

Zimbabwe grinned, her bright white teeth clashing against her dark skin. "Aww! That's so cute! You should definitely braid your hair more often, then. Maybe cornrows? Oh! Maybe you could get dreadlocks! A friend of mine, Kenya, has the most awesome dreadlocks ever and they are _so_ much fun to play with."'

Belarus frowned. "Dreadlocks? What's that?"

Zimbabwe nearly fell over. How could she not know what dreadlocks were? "They're these… they're… it's like… ugh!" Zimbabwe shook her head, laughing. "I don't know how to explain them! If you wanna see what they are then you should just come down to Africa. Maybe to my house! A lot of my people have them." Zimbabwe paused for a moment. "Although…" Zimbabwe ran her fingers through Belarus' platinum blonde hair. "Your hair is really nice as is, too. The color kinda reminds me of Botswana's hair."

"Botswana? Who's that?"

Zimbabwe frowned. "You… you've never heard of Botswana?"

"No, no, I have, it's just… I know met her before, but I just can't quite remember her face."

The African Nation threw her hands up into the air in contempt. "Oh, of course! No one _ever_ talks about the one African Nation that's actually doing alright, huh? Nope, it's all about the one's who've had major civil wars. Everyone talks about how fucked up Somalia has it, or how Angola's basically starving to death, or how batshit crazy Sudan is, but when one of us is actually doing okay, suddenly they become invisible. What the hell!"

Belarus could think of nothing else to say other than, "I apologize. There's no real excuse for me not to know more about the Nations of your continent. It's quite biased of me, isn't it?"

Zimbabwe waved her off. "No, no, it's not your fault. It's the West's fault; they're the ones who always cover up our successes. But I just hate to see a prosperous Nation like Botswana go unnoticed. She just _shines,_ y'know? The rest of us are alright, but _man,_ does she glow! I think it's her diamonds… yeah, that definitely has to be it. Her diamonds and her people and her strong economy and super-nice boss. And it's not even like she's a bitch about it! She's polite and humble, and she lets me stay over at her house whenever things get _really_ bad in mine. She has these _beautiful_ saffron eyes, dark, smooth skin… her hair color is naturally light, around your shade, which is really rare for us Africans. But I think that just speaks even more about how special she is! Oh, Belarus, you definitely have to meet her one of these days! I'm sure you guys would really like each other."

Belarus stood there staring at Zimbabwe with wide eyes, not sure how to respond to her new friend's little monologue. Was this Botswana girl _really _that special to Zimbabwe? She had never heard any Nation speak of another in such high esteem. Perhaps…

"Is Botswana to you… what big brother Russia is to me?"

Zimbabwe thought this over for a second, before nodding her head slightly. "Yeah… kinda. I don't want to marry her, though."

"Why not? It sounds to me as if you really love her. Or… or is it a sisterly love?"

"No. I don't look at her and see a sister. Botswana… she is my special someone. I'm _in_ love with her. I mean, how can I not be? She's _perfect._ She's the first person that I think of in the morning, and the last one I think of at night, and I miss her when she isn't around, and just seeing her brightens up my day." The smile fell from Zimbabwe's face when she added, "But, I don't want to marry her. If we merged, if we became one country… all of my problems would become hers. She'd have to deal with all my hyperinflation, my poverty, my underdevelopment, my paranoia, all the sanctions that the West has put on me. She'd also become the laughing stock of the world; I mean, what Nation in their right mind would ever marry _me_? Me, the failing state, the dictatorship, that ridiculous Nation with the billionth dollar bill? No one would ever take her seriously again. I love Botswana, too much, I think. I love her enough to let her keep her dignity and peace of mind. And besides," Zimbabwe offered Belarus a crooked smile. "Even if I did ask, I know she'd never accept. She's _way_ too smart to make a stupid move like that."

"I disagree. Botswana is lucky to be the object of your affections. I've never met a Nation so selfless."

"Well… thanks!" Zimbabwe flashed a grin, one that was brilliant and bright, and if Belarus hadn't just heard the contrary, she would've thought that the Nation in front of her didn't have any problems at all. "I think that just may be my one redeeming quality!"

**27: Beginnings**

Zimbabwe's fingers moved with an experts touch, moving nimbly through the sizeable bands of leather with which she worked with. She hummed quietly to herself, a springy, upbeat tune, a modern pop hit made in her own land. She weaved quickly, using bands of many different colors to make sure that the basket she was weaving stood out. She was careful with it, never missed a beat; this needed to be perfect. All of her baskets needed to be perfect.

Basket making was Zimbabwe's favorite thing to do, because not only was she good at it, but unlike her other hobbies, it also brought in a decent amount of money. Lots of her people needed baskets, and she would be there to provide them. No matter what, that's all she wanted to do: provide for her people. It had always been her deepest desire ever since she was just a little girl, a colony and nothing more.

"_Draw a circle, that's the earth! Draw a circle, that's the earth! Draw a circle, that's the earth! I'm South Rho-de-si-a!"_

Zimbabwe smiled, despite herself. She hated those days, back when she was part of the British Empire, but at the same time, she missed being a child. Back when she was young enough to envision the perfection of her statehood, the prosperity of her people, and the kindness of the world with such incredible ease. She'd been so young and innocent back then, perhaps even foolish; but foolishness was better than despair, right?

She faltered in her work, her fingers tripping over themselves. Her heart suddenly grew very heavy in her chest. _Death and starvation and poverty and dictators and unrequited love and pitypitypity and—_

Zimbabwe narrowed her eyes, clenched her fist. _And Zimbabwe? She will have _none_ of those things._

She went back to her work, working as quickly and as diligently as ever, determined to weave herself out of poverty and stillness and the darkness. She would make herself worthy of admiration, not pity. She would make herself worthy of Botswana's love. She would bring herself to a place of prosperity; she would burn all of her trillion dollar notes. She provide for her people, feed them and cloth them and make them proud to be hers.

All those simple things. It was all she ever wanted.

* * *

**A/N:** I think these notes are gonna be shorter than last time:

19: Character devices. I shamelessly referenced back to my other Zimbabwe-centric fic, "Fireflies" (if you haven't done so yet, so read it! Okay, advertisements overrrrr xD)

20: Zimbabwe technically gained a sort of independence in 1962, but under white rule. Apparently, in Zimbabwe, the true independence year is considered to be 1980. Also, the whole hair thing: in some cultures, hair is left alone to grow freely, and to cut it off signifies a drastic change in one's life.

21: Character devices, and a new route that Zimbabwean refugees seem to be taking to get to South Africa, now that the path to/through Botswana has been compromised by the damn iron fence around the boarder. Namibia is… not on the best of terms with Zimbabwe, to say the least. They used to be close, but now it's like Namibia throws things at Zimbabwe whenever they cross paths.

23: Zimbabwe has been setting records with how high her inflation is getting—currently its around 6 trillion percent, and growing. I know that this vignette has to deal with he billion dollar note, but recently the government issued the _trillion_ dollar note. And you can't even buy anything with just one trillion Zimbabwean dollars, that's the sad part. Folks in this country literally have to carry around stacks of money with them whenever they go shopping, it's worth virtually nothing.

24: Zimbabwe's past… nothing much to explain, here. Zambia and Zimbabwe used to be one country, called Matabeleland (Matabele, btw, is the biggest ethnic group in both countries). Needless to say, this country was dissolved upon the British takeover. Also, Zimbabwe's land was shuffled around a lot once Mugabe took charge, abruptly going from being privately owned by mostly white Zimbabweans to being publicly owned by the government—this was one of the major things that ruined the her economy. That, and printing more money than was needed.

27: Basket making is a HUGE business in Zimbabwe. And as for the future… well, I have hope Zimbabwe isn't done yet—have faith in her! ^_^

And that brings an end to the _Outpost of Tyranny._ Next is _Beyond the Axis of Evil_, starting with Syria :3


	4. Damascus

**A/N:** The beautiful Syria ^_^

Don't have much to say. Just read, y'all xD

**Disclaimer:** An entire story arch would be dedicated to Syria if I owned Hetalia.

**Chapter 4: Damascus **

**28: Different**

She wasn't like other Arab girls.

Syria liked to fight. She liked to swear. She could lift heavy things and punch holes into walls. She wasn't afraid of war (in fact, she thrived in it). She held nothing back, she spoke whatever was on her mind without a second thought—and if her boss or her brothers or even her men didn't like it, then it was tough luck for them. Her father once proclaimed that he was the most blessed man in their region, with the gods having bestowed upon him four consecutive sons; and Syria beamed with happiness, because surly, the worst thing in the world was to be a woman.

She grew up thinking that she was a boy. Her father, Ancient Assyria, was responsible for this, because she was the eldest and his successor and the worst thing in the world was to have a daughter take that position. He dressed her like a boy and told her that she was one. He swore and drank in front of her as if it were nothing. He gave her her first and best sword, a huge thing nearly as tall as she was, and gave her armor that she came to were all the time. He was the one who taught her to fight. And she drank all that he taught her like an empty cup takes in water, because she was his successor and did not want to let him down. She was his pride and joy. Syria loved her father, and didn't want to be the disappointment that her brothers were.

Her younger brothers were nothing like her. Jordan was more into books and medicine. Lebanon spent most of his time lost in his own head, daydreaming, spaced out. Palestine was the one she could relate to the most, because he liked to fight, too. But even so, not nearly as much as her. She defended the three of them, weaker states, the prefect pray to the more ambitious Nations at the time. If it weren't for Syria, it's safe to say that her three younger brothers may not have made it to adulthood.

She grew up as a boy, but eventually nature caught up with her and she grew breasts, began to bleed once a month. Her body took on a more sharply form. Her voice never cracked. Everyone, including Syria herself, discovered the truth, and Turkey was so angry that he tried to kill her. But she fought back, not as the son her father always wanted, but as the lady that she truly was. The worst thing in the world was to be born a woman, but it appeared as though she would now have to live with it. She was never one to fight fate.

So Syria was a lady. She was pure, wore the hijab, studied the Qur'an and was just as pious as the next. But she was also a fighter. And fighters always won.

Saudi Arabia once told her that it was as if she was meant to be a man from the start. To that, she punched him in the face.

**29: Honor**

"Oh, please, don't make me do _that!"_

"It's for the good of Arab's everywhere, Syria."

He wanted her to marry Iraq, and Syria knew, she _knew_, that surely her boss had lost his mind. Why else would he ask her to do something so disgraceful? Jordan had been married to him less than a year before. For one man to have sex with two siblings was just deplorable. Heartbreaking, even. Assyria would be turning over in his grave if he weren't up in heaven.

She crossed her arms. "I won't do it."

"Oh, yes you will."

"I will_ not._"

"You will so! You will listen to me and marry whom I tell you to marry! I am the man here, and—"

He never got the chance to finish that sentence, because his own Nation slapped him across the face. He reeled for a moment, before drawing up his own hand, as if he had the indecency to do the same. But she caught him by the wrist before the back of his hand connected to the side of her face, and almost laughed at the size his eyes grew from the shock. She shook her head in mock disappointment. "All you men are alike. Your brain's are like file cabinets, and you all think that women are just here to own. Idiots."

And so, Iraq and Syria never married, her boss never tried to _make_ her do something ever again, and she lost track of all the times Jordan kissed and thanked her for saving the family honor.

**30: Marriage**

In 1958, Syria learned that she was to marry Egypt.

She remembered him from world meetings but never spoke to him before. From what she could tell, he was very quiet and reserved a Nation who only spoke when absolutely necessary, and often times not even then. He wore traditional clothes and was always trying to sell knick-knacks to tourists and other Nations. From what she could recall, he was handsome enough, around her height, with wide, brown eyes.

Those same brown eyes stared into hers for the first time on their wedding day, and at that moment, Syria remembered some piece of advice that Palestine always told her: _The eyes are the windows to the soul._

Egypt's windows were closed. His eyes told her nothing and his expressionless face unnerved her. She wasn't afraid of him. What she felt was more akin to frustration, that she would have to now spend the rest of her life with a man who was very unlikely to open up to her.

"Tell me about yourself."

She asked him this on their wedding night, before the clothes came off and they consummated the marriage. She wanted to know something about him, wanted to hear the sound of his voice before she gave herself to him in that ultimate way.

Egypt stared at her for a few good moments; he opened his mouth, and then closed it. It was at that moment that his windows didn't open, but cracked, some unnamable emotion shining out of his eyes and shooting into Syria like a daggers. With that, Syria knew… "You really don't want to be here either, do you?"

Egypt looked away from her. The corners of his lips twitched upwards but then fell into the same place. For the first time, she heard his voice. "Do you want honesty?"

"Yes, especially since that's what I'm giving to you."

He turned back to face her and said very plainly, "There's someone else."

Syria raised her eyebrows. "Really? That's good, since there's someone else for me, too."

Egypt nodded, then whispered, almost to himself, "It's another man."

She stood quiet for a few moments, mulling over this. Another man? _Another man… two men… _In the end, she could only say, "You better not let Nasser find out."

Egypt actually laughed at that, something short and soft and fleeting. "And what of yours? Your other person?"

"I'll just say… that it's someone who's very close but yet very, very far."

Her husband nodded, serious once again. "I know what that's like." The newlywed's remained quiet after that, looking away from each other, the awkward silence something that Egypt was very used to but made Syria uncomfortable. "Listen, Egypt… since we both agree that we don't love each other, do we really still have to…?"

He gave her an expressionless look, before his eyes lit in realization. "Oh, you mean the sex?" He looked away from her. "We don't. You obviously don't want to, and I…" he closed his eyes. "I don't want to betray him in that way."

"Yeah. Me neither."

The marriage ended in 1961, when Syria left Egypt and declared herself a sovereign republic once again. She liked Egypt well enough, they made good friends at the very least, but she couldn't _stand_ his (their) boss. The problem wasn't that Nasser was a dictator, the problem was that he dictated her more than he did Egypt, and this is what caused her to leave. And Egypt didn't go after her; in fact, he was the only one who waved goodbye.

**31: Curl**

Syria stared at the curl on top of Iran's head, how it stood so tall and perfect in its spiral shape. It was so distracting that she stopped listening long ago to what Iran was telling her.

"…and that's pretty much the jam that I'm in. I know that you're Arab and Sunni and everything, but… c'mon! Help a guy out!"

She took her eyes off the gravity-defying ahoge to meet his eyes. She blinked once. "I'm sorry… what?"

He clicked his tongue, but repeated himself. Very slowly. "I. Am at war. With Iraq. He had attacked me. For no reason. No one wants to help me. You are. My last hope. Please. Help. Me."

She narrowed her eyes at him, suddenly remembering why it was that her boss had sent her to speak with him. "Damn right, I'm your last hope. But if you want me to help you, you'd better stop talking to me like I'm an idiot. I'm not stupid, in fact I'm pretty certain that I'm smarter than you. Get your facts straight."

Iran raised an eyebrow to her, smirking. "Oh, really? You _aren't_ an idiot? Then why the fuck did you space out the way you did while I was talking to you?"

"B-Because," she stammered out, losing herself for a moment, "your voice is dull and monotonous and I got bored! I was staring at that thing on the top on your head. That curl."

He blushed at that, a deep, scarlet red that was telling, especially since his skin tone was fairly dark. He seemed to be at a loss of words for a few moments, before finally huffing out, "You know what? Forget it about it. I don't wanna ally myself with a pervert." He turned around to leave, but…

Syria grabbed him by the arm, spinning him around so that he would face her. She lowered her face to his and snarled, _"What did you call me?"_

He remained quiet, before her nails sunk in deeper. Iran winced in pain and then answered, "W-Why else would you be staring at my curl there if you weren't a perv?"

"Um, hello? It's a _hair_ that's standing up on your head, defying gravity like it doesn't even give a fuck about the laws of physics. Of course I'm going to stare! And how can a piece of hair be sexual at all?"

The Iranian glanced away, his blush threatening to return. "You don't know?"

"No," Syria admitted plainly.

He swallowed, audibly. "Then maybe it's better that you don't."

"But what is—"

"Anyway, why don't we start over?" the shorter Nation extended his hand to her. "Hey there, my name is the Islamic Republic of Iran, but you can call me Iran for short! I'm an awesome Nation, pretty much the best of the best, and of course, naturally, I am envied. I think this is why no one wants to help me out in the war that I'm currently in against my neighbor. My neighbor is a real douche, have you met him? His name is Iraq, and he's an annoying pervert who smokes too much and molested your little brother, Jordan. In any case, you're my last hope, since you haven't really allied yourself one way or the other. Let's unite to teach that dumbass a lesson, eh? I promise I'll hold him down while you stomp on his balls!"

Syria, who had been listening this time, smiled. "Well, I don't think that I could ever turn down such a tantalizing offer. And I've always been one to side with the underdog." She took his hand, and they shook on it. "You have yourself an ally."

"Sweet! This is gonna be _so_ awesome! You aren't like other Arab girls. This is gonna be great."

"So we're friends?"

"Totally."

"So, as friends, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, what?"

"What's so sexual about that curl on your head?"

"Damnit, you aren't letting this one go, are ya?"

**32: Fundamentalism**

Syria supposed, pan-Arabism was a nice idea in theory (along with communism and fascism and anarchy) but she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something very wrong with it. Something was brewing in the air, something ugly, something sick, perhaps a virus of sorts. An illness that would infect them all in the worst way.

If they lived in separate houses, then the virus wouldn't spread as quickly, and a cure could perhaps be found. But if they all lived in the same house, then they would all get sick, and they would be too weak to stop it. No; after she divorced Egypt, she vowed that she would never marry again. Not only for her own good but for the good of all Arab's everywhere.

"What are you doing?"

Syria looked up and saw that it was Morocco who was speaking to her. The latter was a small country, a skinny girl with severe features, but she had an imperialistic spirit. She liked to dominate people. Syria turned away from her and answered, "I'm building a moat."

Indeed, Syria was digging a trench all around the boarder of her house, about 7 feet deep. Even taller than Russia or Sweden or Afghanistan. She was covered in dirt and had a shovel in her hands, all that she was using. She worked with herself and herself alone, with no help from her boss or even her own people—but, to their credit, none of them even knew of their Nation's secret project to distance herself from the Arab world. Surely, if they did know, there would be an uproar.

Morocco cocked her head to the side, pouting bit, trying to look innocent. She was trying too hard. "A moat? What for?"

"I want to keep the others the fuck out of my house."

"What others?"

"What is this, 20 Questions? I swear you're so damn nosy!"

"Relax," Morocco advised in a soothing voice, deceptive as ever. "I'm just curious. Who don't you want in your house?"

"Everyone," Syria spat. The older Nation then smiled cruelly, "Especially countries like you."

"Ouch." Morocco pressed a fist to her chest. "That hurt, Syria."

"I don't care," Syria deadpanned.

"So, you're trying to isolate yourself? But, but, the other day, I saw you talking to _the Persian,_ acting all buddy-buddy with him. So, you're abandoning the entire world for that nobody?"

Syria's jaw clenched. If she weren't 7 feet deep inside the earth, she would have without a doubt punched Morocco in the face. "Iran has nothing to do with this." _Well, perhaps he does, but that's none of your business anyway._ "Keep his name off of your lips, unless you want a very serious problem with me."

"Oh, so protective, I see!" Morocco studied Syria for a moment, then frowned and shook her head in mock-upset. "But he's so ugly, though! You're way prettier than him, you'd look way better with Iraq. Weren't you two supposed to be married? Eh, whatever. Anyway, but yeah! I can't believe that you're fucking that short little loser!" Morocco placed her hands on her hips and said in an authoritarian tone, "If I were your boss, I'd break all relations with Iran and sow your vagina shut to keep you from being such a whore."

By now Syria's face was beat red in all her rage. "You stupid piece of shit. You speak such garbage to me, and then you have the _nerve_ to ask me why I don't want to be around our kind anymore. This is why! You're all so damn ignorant and self-righteous that it makes me sick. I'd kill myself before living in the caliphate."

"_Oh!"_ Morocco squealed. "You let it out! You're not trying to block yourself off from _everybody_, just us Arab's!" The smaller Nation leaned back a bit, then spit out a knot of phlegm at Syria. It landed on her left cheek. "Have fun with the Persian and all his friends, then. If you won't be our bitch, then you'll definitely be his!"

Two weeks later, news spread across the Middle East that someone had lit Morocco's hijab on fire, incinerating most of her hair. Syria remained strangely quiet on the matter.

**33: Arrogant, Stupid, and Homeless**

Jordan was perhaps the only Nation Syria knew whose ego was just as big as Iran's.

Jordan, the youngest brother, was perhaps the most meticulous, neurotic, egotistical Nation that she knew. He was well aware of how good looking he was, and of his intelligence. The man knew his worth and perhaps overestimated it just a bit, crippling others not with fists (as Syria did) but with words. He had a sharp tongue, and was not only unafraid of putting others in their place, but in fact reveled in it. This was why most Nations stood away from him, why he had so little friends in their region. The only one who Jordan could perhaps count on as an ally was Iraq, his ex-husband, the one Nation who gladly fanned the flames of Jordan's ego. Iraq openly fawned over Jordan, unashamed of the feelings that he still had over the smaller country, and it almost made Syria want to gag at how pathetic it all was.

"Father would've given _me_ the inheritance, if you hadn't tricked him into thinking that you were a boy."

"Sure. Just keep telling yourself that, and maybe one day it'll be true."

Lebanon was perhaps the only Nation Syria knew who was just as idiotic as Italy. If not even dumber than that.

Lebanon, third born in the family. He was known in their family for having virtually no common sense. He was always either daydreaming or doodling or out in the woods climbing a tree, and he rarely did anything that his boss ever asked of him. He liked to run around singing loudly and out of tune, always giggling to himself even in the most serious of situations. He opened his borders to anyone and everyone who wanted to live in him, and was then surprised when religious and ethnic divisions arose so deep that it erupted in civil war. The pain for him had been intense, and he wouldn't stop crying, so Syria took pity on her idiotic brother and intervened in his civil war, trying to bring it to an end. But when it did end, all the thanks she got was Lebanon yelling at her, something about ulterior motives.

"You're so horrible, Syria! Such a bitch! Just get out of my house already!"

"Okay. Next time you have a civil war, don't come crying to me."

Palestine was perhaps the only homeless Nation that Syria knew of that actually deserved a home.

Palestine, second born in the family. After World War Two, Israel broke into his house, beat him up, and declared that all Palestinian lands belonged to him. And this would've been _fine_ with Syria, she may have even laughed at Palestine's luck, but what irked her about the whole situation were special circumstances that others had made for Israel. She knew, and Jordan knew, and Lebanon knew, that if it had been anyone else, had Iraq tried to take over Kuwait (for example), the whole entire world would have intervened on Kuwait's behalf. So what was so special about Israel that made it okay to kick Palestine out of his own house? And what made it worse was then even after all of that, after they all tried to take his home back and lost every time, Israel continued to bully Palestine, conduct air strikes, restrict him in the worst ways possible. But until they could take his house back, Syria took care of Palestine.

"I love you, Syria. You're such a good big sister."

"Thank you. Just that alone makes it all worth it."

**34: Like Others**

Her two best friends were Cuba and Libya. Two men.

They could walk together trouble-free in Havana –at worst, people there would at times stare at Syria because of her head scarf, something that she grew used to. In Tripoli, more people stared, mostly at Syria, not so much because of her hijab, but because she was traveling with two men who she was obviously not related to. And then there was Damascus—Syria's heart. They received the worst treatment there, slurs and the dirtiest of looks. They were all directed at her, of course. The three of them never did anything particularly wrong; they'd just be talking and laughing, acting like normal young adults, but everyone hated them (her) for it because she was a girl, and girls weren't supposed to act that way. It was perhaps the one aspect that she hated about her life above everything else, that she wasn't a man. She liked being a woman, she accepted her fate, but she had to admit, life had been so much easier when she had been a boy to the world—then, only Allah knew the truth, only Him and not even herself. She hated how she was objectified, seen as "less than", because life's gamble had left her as Ancient Assyria's only daughter instead of his first son.

She supposed that the only reason why she felt so strongly about it was because she knew was it was to be a man. The other female Arab's—Oman, Yemen, United Arab Emirates, Qatar, Bahrain, Morocco, Mauritania—weren't as disturbed by society as Syria was, because they had never known the other side. They didn't know how good it felt to be a man, to be able to do and say whatever you wanted. They didn't know. They didn't—

"Why was 6 afraid of 7?" Cuba piped up.

Syria and Libya looked at each other, then back to Cuba, expecting an answer. The Latin American smiled wryly and shrugged. "Because 7 was Arab."

"Are you sure? 7 could just as easily be Latino," Libya mused. "I mean, put an Arab and a Hispanic side by side, and _I_ can't even tell the difference."

Syria sniggered, and because they were in her territory one of her more chauvinistic men shouted out "whore!" but she ignored it because she had to. She wasn't a man. She never would be. But she didn't want to act like the typical woman, either.

She supposed that, in the end, she just wanted to be Syria.

**35: Devotion**

She rescued him from Iraq, stood by him through it all, and loved Iran, no matter what.

"Hm, you know, Syria?" Iran asked one night, after another heavy battle with Iraq. They were in a border town, a field covered in dead bodies—Syria didn't quite mind it, and Iran just tried to ignore it. They sat on the ground together, facing each other, only the light of the stars shining down on them to provide some form of light.

"What is it?" Syria murmured. She was tired.

"Did you ever have a first love?"

Her eyes widened. A first love? She paused for a moment, before murmuring, "No. I didn't."

"Huh, that's weird. Well, maybe not, you are pretty young and all." Syria didn't know what he meant by that. If anything, she would be older than him. "I had a first love once, ya know."

"Really?" Iran didn't strike her as the type to fall in love. "What was she like?"

"He." Iran corrected. "Yeah, he was this little warrior dude. A Nation, like the two of us. The oldest of four brothers." Iran turned his head and looked up at the sky. It was indigo and hazed with a light fog. "He used to carry around a sword almost as big as he was, and always, always wore his armor. He was his father's pride and joy, and he used to defend his three little brothers, weak countries who probably would have died if it weren't for him." Iran smiled fondly, his eyes sparkling as he went on. "He was real, real serious, and didn't take any shit from anyone, but deep down he had a really good heart." Iran looked back down at Syria. "He was an Arab, you know. Just like you."

Syria glanced up at him, her bronzed cheeks glowing with a faint blush that Iran couldn't make out in the darkness. She averted her gaze down to her hands. "Oh, really? What was his name?"

Iran waved her off. "Not important. It doesn't matter what his name was. He's dead."

Her head shot up. "D-Dead?"

"Yeah. He was around until the first World War." Iran turned away from her. "But then, for some reason, Turkey killed him."

Syria's mind was going a million miles a second, and she couldn't swallow the lump in her throat. After a few long moments, Iran picked up again.

"Once, he told me that no matter who came into my life, no matter how much they loved me, he would always love me more than any of them." Iran smiled, but unlike all the other times there was a touch of tragedy to it. "I believe him, too. I mean, there's proof all around me, even now. He loves me still."

Iran turned away from her again, and Syria closed her eyes. Tried to count the number of years that Iran was alive.

**36: Static**

Out of them all, she was the one who everyone expected to stay the same. This was before March of 2011.

**A/N**: Historicalness explained!

28: Okay, let me explain this family tree: Once upon a time, a big, hairy man named Ancient Assyria fell in love with a pretty young woman named Philistine. They fucked and had babies: Syria, Palestine, Lebanon and Jordan. Syria and Jordan together make up what was once Ancient Assyria, while Palestine, Lebanon, and Israel make up what was once Philistine (hey, for all you Christians out there, Philistine comes up in the bible! You know, that crazy story with all the marching and shouting!). Anyway, as with all cultures, in Arab culture it doesn't matter if the girl is first born—the oldest son is getting the inheritance. But, with Nations, my head canon tells me that this would be invalid: no matter what, the firstborn inherits the land, even if the firstborn is a girl. As in the case with Ancient Assyria and Syria. So, to save face, Assyria raised his only daughter as his son, something that poor little Syria didn't even know until she hit puberty (you know, like a certain Hungarian).

The only historical reference: Turkey tried to kill Syria? Yes, in 1915, Ottoman troops started to pound Syria, most notably in the Massacre of Hama. Syria claims this to be genocide, though Turkey denied these allegations.

Not much history here, other than Syria's childhood and establishing that she's a boss. Like, it takes guts for _anyone_ to punch a guy like Saudi Arabia in the face. Especially if you're a girl. Especially if you're an Arab girl.

29: The Arab Federation of Iraq and Jordan lasted from February 14, 1958 to July 14, 1958 (FIVE MONTHS. THAT'S SHORT, EVEN BY HUMAN STANDARDS). This union came to be out of the pan-Arabism philosophy and the desire of some to create an Islamic caliphate in the Middle East (aka, one big country for all Arabs). It all fell apart once it's ruler, King Faisal, was disposed in a military coup.

Iraq and Syria were _supposed_ to merge into one country in 1978. Iraq used to be ruled by the Ba'athist (Renaissance) Party, before the 2003 US invasion. As I write this now, Syria is _currently_ ruled by the Ba'athist Party. In 1978, both countries were ruled by this political party and wanted to merge, but all negotiations for this fell apart once Saddam Hussein took power in Iraq and cut off all ties to Syrian Ba'athists.

With that said, it was really Iraq who stopped this wedding, but Syria wasn't too thrilled about it either, remembering how badly she was treated by Egypt's boss while married to him. Plus, knowing Syria, she would have thought the whole idea was repulsive just because Iraq used to be married to her little brother. She'd also be put off by Iraq's inability to take much of anything seriously, and as for the bad blood that existed between Iraq and Iran… heh. Even if they had gotten married, the union probably would have lasted for four months, tops. That is, if Iraq and Syria didn't kill each other first.

30: The United Arab Republic, comprised of Egypt and Syria, began in 1958 and ended in 1961, when Syria seceded from the union. Again, pan-Arabism and the caliphate played a huge role in this. Um… Syrians were pretty oppressed during this time, seeing as the leader of this union, the notorious Gamal Abdel Nasser, was an Egyptian nationalist who didn't want to share power with Syrian Ba'athists. But I would say, seeing as they're both really serious and no-nonsense, Egypt and Syria themselves would have gotten along just fine, though.

31: IRAN HAS A HUGE AHOGE ON TOP OF HIS HEAD, AND YES IT IS HIS ENGORGEOUS ZONE. And Syria would be quite fascinated by it. The end.

32: …just my take on pan-Arabism, and the fact that Syria has seemed to withdrawn any desire to merge with any other Arab country in an attempt to create some sort of caliphate. Now, she just wants to impose her will onto others, but she doesn't want to marry anyone anytime soon. So, logically, to keep all potential suitors away, she has built a moat all around her boarder.

As for Morocco… well. Syria and Morocco don't really get along. If you look at post-independent Moroccan history, it's quite apparent that if this were another place and time, there would be a Moroccan Empire in North-Western Africa. Morocco claims West Sahara and is absorbing that place little by little (controls about 80% now), and as Mauritania was trying to organize her own independence, Morocco kept on preying on her, not at all shy about her desire to absorb Mauritania into her territory. It's quite scary.

Morocco hasn't been as pro-Arab as the other Arab states, but even so… she doesn't like Syria, and would say anything to get under her skin.

(And as for her hair, don't worry. It's all grown back by now.)

33: WELL. SYRIA AND HER BROTHERS.

Jordan is stuck up… just because he is. He's managed to avoided a lot of the problems that have plagued the other Nations in his area, and also happens to have a highly developed medical field (the best in the Middle East, apparently). Also, I guess if it were possibly, Jordan would have inherited Assyria's lands because he made up the other half if Assyria back in Ancient times, even though he's the youngest.

Lebanon is cute, and he's also really liberal, but he can also be just clueless sometimes. And ungrateful to his big sister.

As for Palestine… obviously, Syria's hatred for Israel is a bit more personal, considering the whole Golan heights fiasco. But Palestine definitely plays a huge role, too. When it comes to family, Palestine would be, like, the one bright spot for Syria ^_^

34: BEYOND THE AXIS OF EVIL LOVE. And the modification of a really corny joke lol

35: *crickets chirping* …I'm not touching this one with a 40 foot pole. Make of it what you will.

36: You know the protests in the Middle East? Syria's late like a motherfucker; hers just started last week. But better late than never, right? C:

That's all. Next is my love, Libya :3


	5. Tripoli

**A/N:** Oh, God, Libya. If you follow current events and don't care about what's happening in Libya, YOU HAVE NO SOUL. Srsly.

Anyway. Nothing much to say in this fine opening note. This will probably be the longest chapter in this entire series, seeing as it passes 10,000 words (9, 839 without the closing notes). Slight **warning!** for Libya's promiscuity-Diclonius' Lilium and I decided that it must so (Libya/Chad, Libya/Central African Republic, and what's gonna _look_ like non-con Sudan/Libya, but actually isn't.) Anddddd that's about it. Enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** LIBYA WOULD BE FAWNED OVER FOREVER AND EVER IF I OWNED HETALIA. LIKE, I WOULD DRAW HIM ALL ROSY AND SHIT AND EVERYONE WOULD WANT TO SLEEP WITH HIM. But alas, I don't won Hetalia *rolls up into a ball and cries*

**Chapter 5: Tripoli **

**37: 400**

"They _infected_ my _babies_ with _HIV," _Libya's voice was dangerously calm as he uttered this sentence, six words which each spoke a thousand more. "How is that _not a big deal?_"

Belgium held up her hands in a sign of surrender, though Libya had no weapons aimed at her. Yet. "I-I never said that it wasn't a big deal. Libya, please, just listen—"

The African Nation slammed his hands down on the desk behind which Belgium sat. "No, no, _you listen to me_. Four hundred. Can you count that high, babe?"

Belgium remained silent. Libya leaned in closer, until their faces were mere inches apart, and he whispered, "I said, '_can you count that high?'"_

"Yes—"

"Show me."

Belgium blinked. "Wh… _What?_"

"You heard me, you European scum!" Libya swept his arm across Belgium's desk, knocking everything on it to the floor in all his rage and frustration and deep regret. "Show me you have a brain underneath all that hair! _Start counting!"_

She stared up at the male country, paralyzed with fear, the look of pure terror that she bore reflected back at her in Libya's red-brown eyes. Before long, his lip curled, ever so slightly, and she could tell that if she didn't start soon, the North African would undoubtedly attack. Her voice barely above a whisper, she began. "One, two, three…"

As she continued, Libya began to pace back and forth before her. "Let's see if you can keep count while I lay out the situation before you," his voice was back to the ominous calm that it was before. He continued. "One Palestinian doctor and five of _your_ nurses came over to one of my more impoverished cities, out of good will, to work at one of my hospitals. They worked with the children..."

Belgium could've sworn that she heard Libya's voice crack just then, but she wasn't sure. She decided it best not to dwell on it. Instead, she continued counting. "Seventy, seventy one, seventy two…"

"They… they went to go work with the children," he repeated. "_My babies_. Their parents trusted these foreigners to heal their children. _I_ trusted them. And what do they do?" He laughed bitterly. "They infect _four hundred of them with fucking HIV!"_ he screeched.

Belgium lowered her head, eyes clenched shut. "One hundred sixty one, one hundred sixty two, one hundred sixty three…"

He stopped pacing, and stared out the window on the far left of the room. "HIV. Human Immunodeficiency Virus. Four hundred little Libyan children." His voice trembled, so low and soft, his lips barely moving. "HIV." He mumbled, lost in thought. "You know their lives are ruined, don't you? Maybe... maybe in you, people can live for a while with HIV and even AIDS, but not in me. Most of my people just don't have the money to buy the meds, and without any meds…" He trailed off, the silence that he allowed to follow stating more than words ever could.

"Two hundred eighty four, two hundred eighty five, two hundred eighty six…"

"Five Belgian nurses _deliberately_ infected four hundred Libyan children with HIV. On purpose. For no reason at all. Do you know the reason, Belgium? What is it; do your people just have some sort of grudge against mine? What did they ever do to them? The first chance they got, they screwed over four hundred innocent children. Was it because they're mine?" By the tone of his voice, Libya seemed almost desperate to know, the slight pleading in it so uncharacteristic of him. "What did I ever do to you, Belgium?"

She could not answer him. "Three hundred forty one, three hundred forty two, three hundred forty three…"

"And the worst part is… the worst part is that they're free. All because of your _precious _European Union, that and the fact that my boss… my boss can't turn down a good deal. He let them go. We tried them _twice, _convicted them _twice_, and sentenced them to death _two fucking times!"_ Libya cried. "And they walk away, scot-free! Man, oh man. This is the kind of world we live in. My _God!"_

"Three hundred ninety seven, three hundred ninety eight, three hundred ninety nine, four hundred." Belgium looked up. "I-I'm done. I counted to four hundred."

Libya slowly turned to face her. "Good. Every one of those numbers is one of my babies. Four hundred is a lot. Four hundred is a big deal. Do you get it now?"

Belgium slowly leaned back in her chair. Quietly, she said, "I'm sorry."

Libya turned away from her, so that his back was to her—he would be damned if she saw the tears in his eyes. He blinked them back. "You should be."

**38: Familiar**

Libya charged up and tackled Egypt from behind. They both unceremoniously fell to the ground as Libya's grip tightened; he _squeezed_ Egypt with all of his might, expressing his love to the fullest. Usually, the other Arab state just lied there and took his cousin's absurd gestures of affection, but in 1958 Egypt violently shoved Libya away from him. The younger Nation rolled away from his cousin as Egypt sat up, dusted himself off. Libya frowned. "What was that for? What's wrong?"

Egypt glanced over to him, and then back away. Libya was taller than him, much taller, and far more muscular. But Egypt wasn't afraid of him, not in the slightest. Perhaps more than anyone, he knew that on the inside Libya was just a big, silly teddy bear who wouldn't hurt anyone intentionally unless pushed to his very limit. And right then, Libya was very far from his breaking point.

The teddy bear poked Egypt's side, causing the older embodiment to cringe away from him. "I said, '_what's_ _wrong?'_" he repeated when his question was not immediately answered.

Egypt shook his head. "Nothing."

"Don't give me that. Something's totally wrong, I can see it in your eyes." Libya grinned. "That, and, you usually welcome my awesome displays of affection instead of pushing me away."

"You think too highly of yourself. I don't so much welcome your hugs as I do tolerate them."

Libya shrugged. "Whatever. Just tell me what's wrong. Nasser on your back again?"

Egypt's eye twitched. "No, he isn't 'on my back'. You speak as though he's some sort of annoyance."

"Well… he kinda is."

"He isn't. How would you know how I feel about him?"

"Like I said, I can see it in your eyes. Just tell me, does he have something to do with your bummed-out mood?"

Egypt sighed heavily. "No. I-I mean, in a way… I will admit, one of his policy's has been grating on me as of late."

Libya sat up, sitting cross-legged in front of Egypt. "Tell me about it."

"Well…" Egypt pursed his lips. "It appears as though he wants me… to get married."

"Married? Married…" Libya repeated the word to himself, it's meaning slowly sinking in. He blinked, red-brown eyes wide with confusion. "Why would he want you to do something silly like that?"

The other embodiment shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. Something about pan-Arabism or the other." Egypt waved his hand about dismissively. "I told him that it was a stupid idea, none of us Arab's really want to live in the same house again after the Ottoman Empire, but try convincing Nasser. I respect my boss, but he can be quite stubborn."

The only thing Libya could ask at that point was, "So, who does he want you to marry?"

Egypt sighed and shook his head. Another long moment of silence passed before he finally said, "It's weird."

"What's weird?"

"It's just weird. I'm… to marry a female Nation."

Libya frowned, more confused than ever. "But, but… but you're only neighbors are me, Sudan, and that bastard Israel. And the three of us are, you know, guys."

Egypt pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know. The Nation I am to marry isn't a neighbor. That's what's so strange about this whole mess."

"You aren't neighbors? But that… that's just dumb!"

"You're telling me."

"So, I mean… which female Nation are you to marry?" Libya thought for a moment, then smiled. "You're kinda screwed if it's one of the Arabian Peninsula girls, I hope you at least know that."

Egypt scoffed, and shook his head. "No, not one of them." Libya could have sworn he heard Egypt mumble _'thank Allah'_ under his breath as an afterthought, but the younger Nation couldn't be sure. "It's someone else."

"Who, then?"

Egypt sighed heavily. "…Syria."

Libya remained quiet for a few moments, looking conflicted. But then he just couldn't hold his laughter back anymore. He laughed so hard that he tipped backwards into the sand. "Hahahaha! I was wrong, you're worse than screwed! That girl is gonna _kill _you!"

Egypt scowled. So much for familiar support.

**39: Plans**

Tripolitania was the woman who raised Libya. He never did refer to her as his mother, but deep down, when all was said and done, he knew that was what she was.

She was a very strange woman, eccentric, nothing at all like her older sister, Ancient Egypt. She laughed loudly and liked to eat sweet things. Libya could remember her always twirling around and calling everything beautiful. She would make wreaths for him made out of flowers like jasmine and peony. And he would wear them, just to make her happy.

She would take hold of him by the wrists and dance around with him in the sun and in the rain. She would tell him strange stories and sing to him in her high-pitched and nearly shrieking voice. She genuinely praised everything that Libya did, even if he failed miserably at it.

Tripolitania had two brothers, Fezzan and Cyrenaica, Libya's uncles. The trio barely got along, always bickering amongst each other, and while Tripolitania was fair and let the two of them see their nephew, she herself refused to meet with them. Their horrible relations with each other—ones that went beyond rivalry and bordered on full-fledged hatred—were no secret, least of all to Libya. And when he grew old enough to develop the malice to eavesdrop, he soon began to realize how all of this reflected back onto him.

Tripolitania, Fezzan and Cyrenaica were three separate embodiments, but Libya himself was the three of them combined, all of their people his people, and for this other Nation's began to question his existence. How could all these people who hated each other one day come together and be Libyan? It seemed almost impossible, with tribal divisions so deep and seemingly irreversible, and for this—

Libya's heart sank when he heard this come from his own Aunt Egypt's mouth—

"He is simply not meant to be. One day, the tribes of my siblings will fall out for good and turn away from each other forever, and it will kill Libya."

Those words would never completely leave him: _He is not meant to be._

Their cruel legacy not only overshadowed his, but now is seemed as though the three of them had all but crushed Libya's chances of ever having any sort of life. He blamed his uncles but blamed his mother the most, because she was the most deceitful of the three. Her innocence and beauty and untouched perfection became tainted to her son. Her stupidity had literally ruined his life, in every sense of the phrase, and he found himself resenting the woman who had raised him, for all that she was and was not. And that resentment eventually grew to hatred, and despite her obliviousness Tripolitania eventually did notice.

"Libyaaaaa," she would whine, tugging on his sleeve, "why don't you ever want to play anymore?"

He would never answer, and soon the question morphed and multiplied into, "Why have you stopped liking me? Is it because I'm ugly? Do I embarrass you?"

Until one day it was: "Why don't you talk to me anymore, Libya?"

And then the crusaders came along, spreading Islam. But their people fought back in some of the most violent ways possible, and on their last day together Libya found himself face down on the ground, screaming, hands over his eyes. His mother's boss had taken a knife and slashed it over his twin globes, and Libya couldn't see a thing though all the red and the approaching darkness. All because he said that he thought Islam was beautiful, and that he wanted to convert. And the man told him that perhaps he needed to lose his vision, then, in order to learn what was truly beautiful.

But red wasn't beautiful. It was _terrifying_.

Libya cried and screamed from the pain, he'd never felt anything like it before. But soon he felt a pair of hands on his shoulders, and they moved to the crooks of his armpits, sitting him up. Hands wiping away all the blood, carful and quick. But more just came after that, so the hands left for a while. Upon their return, he felt a cool cloth being wiped across his face, and then bandages, all around his head to cover his eyes. He continued to bleed sluggishly. It was dark.

But the bandages did nothing to stop the pain, and it soon became so much that he lost consciousness. When he woke, he found that he was in a bed. His bed. He sat up and used his hands as his eyes, stretching them out, trying to find the person who had helped him. He still shook from the pain, but at least now he could form some sort of coherent thought. He wanted to find the one who had helped him.

"Libya! You're awake?" Next to him, he felt the bed shift as Tripolitania moved to be closer to him. She began to stroke his head, the side of his face. "You're okay! I'm _so_ glad… for a while there I thought that maybe…"

She allowed herself to trail off; perhaps the only trait that she and her son shared was that they both knew when to stop talking, when to allow silence to say more that words. "You're going to be okay. Listen, I need to tell you something. What's happened to you… is all a part of the plan."

He reached out and began to touch her face, feeling it, her large eyes and full lips and wavy brown hair. "The plan?"

"Yeah. The grand master plan that life has in store for you. You're supposed to convert. Supposed to lose your sight. And… I guess you're supposed to stand on your own from now on, too."

Behind the bandages, his eyes widened, and it was excruciating but he still stammered out, "B-but—!"

"Don't worry about it. There's nothing you can do to stop it. It's all a part of the plan. I have faith in you, you know? I mean, you're Libya! There's nothing that you can't do!" She giggled, ruffling Libya's hair. "You know, I think that I finally figured out why you were so mad at me. It took a lot of thinking, and that kinda hurted my head a little bit, but I think I've got it. You… you think that, because my people don't get along with your uncle's people, that one day that's going to play out into something bad for you." She ran her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp lightly, soothingly. "You hate me because I ruined things for you. My mistakes messed up everything." Her fingers stopped. "It's so, so simple, but took me the longest time just to realize that… and when I finally did, it was already too late. I had let things between us get so bad for so long that you didn't even want to talk to me anymore."

He wanted to tell her no, that it wasn't her fault, that it was all his for being so selfish. But before he could, almost as if she sensed his pending apology, she beat him to it. "I'm really sorry. For everything. But now I guess it's alright, because I'm not going to be around for much longer, so I can't mess up anything more than I already have. You'll finally have your chance, and I have faith that you can bring all the tribes together and make things okay, like they should be. I know you won't believe me, but I just know that our people will be so much happier with you! And not just them. One day, the whole world will see you through my eyes." He couldn't see her, but he could all but_ feel_ the magnificent smile on her face. "Before you came along, my life kinda sucked, you know? But then you were born and showed me what it was to be happy! So thank you, Libya. You were the one bright spot in my life."

When the time came to take off his bandages, Tripolitania was already long gone. He blinked blearily against the sunlight that surrounded him, and to his surprise he found that he had retained a lot of his sight. His vision was only slightly hazed, and when he took a look at his reflection he knew that his scars were superficial and would heal with time. Just like all wounds. He vowed then that he would not allow his Aunt to be correct in saying that he had no purpose, and he promised himself that he would not let Tripolitania down. He would make his existence count for something.

**40: Hidden**

"Okay, so I'm starting to notice how all of us, maybe except for Iran, have been imperialized by some European douchebag at one point or another," Zimbabwe concluded. "Mine was England, obviously. As you all know, he was a little bitch. What about the rest of you?"

"Oh, mine was also Great Britain! I actually used to be part of British India for quite some time," Myanmar piped up. "He and France used to fight over me a lot… I used to think that it was because they both liked me so much, but now I realize they were only fighting for power. Oh, well. Maybe it's better that I remained with England until independence, because France… well, he is France, yes? He would have molested me, and that wouldn't have been a good thing."

"I was never imperialized. I've lived with big brother for most of my life, but th-that was never…" Belarus drifted off towards the end of her sentence, as if even she didn't believe it to be true. "But, da, I was never really taken over brutally, so, so, of course I wasn't imperialized! Big brother would _never_ do that to me."

"Well, for most of my life I'd been part of my dad Spain's Empire." Cuba didn't offer any further details, and somehow the other members of the League knew not to ask for them.

Iraq shrugged. "Mine was that pervert, Ottoman Empire. Or, as he's now called, 'Turkey'."

Syria nodded. "Same. He wasn't too bad, up until I hit puberty. Then, he tried to kill me," she concluded with a straight, serious face that told everyone in the room that she wasn't kidding.

North Korea cleared his throat. "I was first under the control of aniki China, but I loved living with him, so that wasn't so bad. But then, dear China lost South and I to Japan, who was quite brutal towards us. Those years were terrible, and those events can actually be considered the reason why South and I were split apart. After WWII, South was imperialized by America, while dear Russia took me under his wing and taught me the ways of communism," North Korea sighed heavily. "Oh, how I wish South had been with me, learning, fighting. My eternal president, the venerable Kim Il Sung, would have loved South, had they ever gotten to know each other. Of course," North Korea sat up in his chair, straight and proud, "I will be bringing South home at once, when I get the chance."

"Ha, I was never imperialized. You can say that I was actually the one taking over shit," Iran glanced over once at Iraq. "A bit of what is now Iraqi territory, not to mention the island of Bahrain. Man, I still like to rub Saudi Arabia's face in _that_ one! But, don't me wrong, I was never really an Empire, per say. If you're thinking the 'Persian Empire', that was my grandpa. Now _he_ had a huge Empire. My adventures were small potatoes compared to his."

As they all chattered and spoke freely of whoever they had been taken over, there was one member of the League who remained strangely quiet. Libya remained hunched over in the corner, trying to hide himself, though eventually the other eight remembered him.

"Who were you taken over by, Libya?" asked Zimbabwe.

Libya smiled awkwardly despite the burning blush that tinted his cheeks bright pink. He shrugged and looked away from them, but now they were all interested. Zimbabwe frowned. "C'mon, we're all friends here. Who was it? Were they really that bad?"

Libya sighed heavily. "It's not important. It's in the past."

"Of course it's important! Whether we like it or not, whoever controlled us at one point or another pretty much changed our lives. That country influenced who you are today. So tell us, who was it?"

"Fine. It was…" he trailed off, almost unable to say it. He tried again. "It was…" he mumbled something, undoubtedly the name of the Nation that had imperialized him at one point, but no one quite heard him.

"Good God, man, just spit it out!" North Korea insisted.

Cuba patted his shoulder. "It's okay, man, whoever it is, we're not going to judge you!"

"Yeah, no matter how mean this person was, no matter what they did to you, we won't look at you any differently." Myanmar reassured him.

"It can't be _that_ bad." Belarus tried.

"Listen, I'm gonna start naming off imperial powers, and you're gonna tell me if they were the one. Let's start with Japan! Was it Japan?" Iraq probed.

North Korea rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, because Japan had _so_ _many_ African colonies."

Iran and Syria, the only two to know who it was that took over Libya, looked over at their friend as if to say, _If you don't tell them, we will._

Libya couldn't take it anymore. He threw his hands up into the air and shouted, "It was Italy!"

They were only quiet for a few moments, before they all burst out laughing. Libya scowled as he sank down lower into his seat, and reminded himself that this was why he never told anyone anything about his life prior to 1951.

**41: Boomerang**

"Do you like that, Central African Republic?" Libya asked innocently as he ran his hand up the smaller Nations thigh, tantalizingly slow. The unlimited tease. "Do you like it when I touch you?"

Central African Republic—small and thinly-framed, a petite Nation littered with scars—looked down at Libya, his eyes clouded over and hazy in pleasure. He was sitting on Libya's lap and could plainly feel the older Nation's erection poking at him, just a few inches away from his entrance, though his virginity was protected by the pants that he still had on. He refused to answer Libya as the hand on his thigh inched higher and higher.

"Hmm," Libya hummed absently as he brought up his other hand and began to tease Central African Republic's nipples through his shirt, pinching them, caressing his chest like he would a woman's breast. Central Africa Republic bit his lip to keep from crying out; he turned his head away from Libya, but in response to that the Arab took his hand away from his chest and brought it up to cup his chin, gently pulling it back so that the smaller state would have to face him. Libya smiled, mockingly. "You like it a lot, don't you? Am I the first one to ever touch you like this?" Libya didn't wait for him to answer. "What an honor."

His other hand continued to move upwards, but stopped just before the poorer Nation's own member. Libya glanced down just once to confirm his suspicions, and saw that he was right; the teen was just as hard as he was. He turned to look back up at Central African Republic and, never breaking eye contact, began to undo the smaller Nation's belt. "I won't take you this time, because the first time is always kinda painful for the one who's receiving. Right now, I just want to make you feel good."

Libya took Central African Republic's belt away completely, then undid his pants button and zipper. The teen's member sprang free then, and Libya took hold of it and began to pump his hand up and down. Central African Republic gasped sharply as he clutched at Libya's shirt, buried his burning face in the crook of the older Nation's neck. His moans were muffled, but Libya could still hear him, those lovely sounds of approval. He wanted to hear more of them. He began to move faster.

Though, what neither Nation knew was that there was that another of their kind was watching what was happening through the open window. She sat perched up on a tree branch, binoculars in hand, and she was not happy at all, because Libya had just broken their deal and now, she would have to find someone else to sleep with. The girl sighed and shook her head, disappointed with Libya but more so with herself.

With how often he cheated on her, it was for Chad to leave Libya and find another boyfriend, but the fact of the matter was that she didn't want to. She really did like Libya and, perhaps even more so, enjoyed the rivalry of sorts that existed between the two of them. She climbed down from the tree, and knew exactly who she would go after next.

A few days later, she was at Egypt's house.

"You're my cousin's girlfriend," Egypt deadpanned.

Chad lowered herself down to her knees. "I know."

"This is wrong."

She undid his belt. "I know."

"You're only using me."

Chad took Egypt's penis in her hand and began to pump her hand up and down, trying to bring his member to life. She looked up at him. "You're smarter than you look."

"Thanks."

Once he was hard, Chad came forward and slowly wrapped her lips around the head of Egypt's cock. "Don't bite it." He warned her calmly. To that, Chad just rolled her eyes and began to bob her head up and down. She hollowed her cheeks a bit and moved her tongue around to imitate what her insides would feel like, and Egypt moaned softly, bringing up his hand and running it over her coarse hair. She began to move faster.

After it was done, Chad left Egypt's room as calmly as she had entered. He offered to pay her but she figured, getting back at Libya was more than enough payment. She crossed the threshold out of his room, turned the counter to leave—

And tripped over Libya's feet.

She turned back sharply and glared at him, gaze sharp; she was practically growling. He looked at her passively, the gaze of a lamb. Then, the facade broke, his smile something of a cross-breed between playful and wicked, his innocence nothing but a farce. He pushed her legs away and got up on his own; he held out a hand to her but she swatted it away.

Three weeks later, Chad barged into her older brother Sudan's house. She was upset, and understandably so; Darfur was complaining once again that Sudan was beating him, and Chad was intent on giving her brother a good, stern talking-to about the consequences of doing such a thing. Her brother was a sadist, a Nation who was not at all alright in the head after all that had happened to him. It sent chills up her spine, just thinking about half of the things he'd done, but she knew for a fact that he would never hurt her so she was not afraid of scolding him.

The entire house was dark and silent; Chad slowed in her footsteps. In the distance, perhaps on the second or third floor of his house, Chad heard moaning and what sounded suspiciously like a headboard creaking. And muffled screaming. Chad knew what her brother was like, and her stomach sank. Swallowing her disgust, she pulled up her skirt and began to charge up the stairs, intent on stopping what was surely one of Sudan's raping-spree's.

The noises were coming from the attic. Chad took a deep breath, preparing herself with what she was about to face, but when she opened the door a bit to peek in—

Her world froze. She could not believe what she was seeing.

Sudan had Libya—_her Libya, her only one—_tied down to his bed, his ankles and wrists handcuffed to the bedposts. There was silver duct tape over his mouth to silence his screaming, and Sudan was on top of him, not so much penetrating Libya but more like _shoving_ into him, _stabbing_ him, laughing maniacally as he rubbed and pinched and groped his little sister's boyfriend. Libya had his head tilted back, his eyes clenched shut, and blood slithered down his arms from his struggle against the metal handcuffs.

Chad clenched the doorframe until her knuckles had turned white, and in her head over and over again she could only chant what she was sure Libya was also thinking: _no no no no no! _

"Oh, Lib..." she couldn't even bare to say his name. She was shaking.

Sudan leaned down and, in a vulgar act of possession, flattened his tongue against the Libya's cheek and licked the entire side of his face.

_Allah, no. No! Not him, not him, anyone but my Libya._

Had it been anyone else in Libya's position, and she would have barged in immediately to stop her brother's immorality. But somehow, with Libya, she could not. She wanted to help him but was frozen where she was, paralyzed, unable to intervene but unable to look away. It wasn't that she was afraid of Sudan hurting her—again, she knew that he wouldn't—it was more so that she was afraid of what would happen between her and Libya if this sort of thing were to taint what they had. There was no doubt in her mind that this type of brutalization would change Libya, and she could deal with that, but she feared to what extent that he would change if he knew that she knew. If she tried to intervene.

Would he hate her, if he knew that she was aware of this shameful thing? Would he hate her more if she intervened, or if she stood by and let it happen? If the tables were turned, what would she want him to do? She couldn't bring herself to even imagine such a scenario. The more she thought about it, the more conflicted she became, her mind twisting in on itself like a pretzel. She remained paralyzed, unable to intercede but also unable to look away. She had to look, had to know what happened, because she could not let him suffer alone. If she could not bring herself to stop it, then she at least had to suffer with him.

Sudan brought a hand up and ripped away the tape on Libya's mouth. Libya inhaled sharply, as if he wanted to scream, but was soon silenced again when Sudan's lips crashed upon his own. Even when Sudan _kissed_ someone, he did it in the most vulgar way possible, and Chad couldn't help but wonder how Khartoum and Juba and Darfur managed to live with this man day in and day out. Did they hear him doing this to other people? Did Sudan do this to his own children? Chad didn't put anything past her big brother.

Sudan pulled away from Libya and told him, "I want to hear you."

He wanted to hear Libya scream. Chad felt as though she were about to collapse.

Libya bit down on his lip and turned away from Sudan, but the larger Nation took hold of his jaw and forced him to look back. "I _want_ to _hear_ you," he repeated.

Chad braced herself for the blood curdling screams that she was sure she would hear, but nothing could have prepared her for what actually came out of Libya's mouth. It was _moaning._

"Hng… Su-Su—ah! Ngh… uhh… ahhh, d-don't… st-stop… ugh… _don't stop!_

Chad's hands fell to her sides, and she was now more shocked than anything. She didn't know which would have been worse, Libya actually being raped or… or _this_.

Libya looked off to the side, in the direction of the door. He and Chad made eye contact once, and Libya's eyes expanded in shock as Sudan continued to fuck him. Chad turned away from him and stormed out of her brother's house.

The next day, he came to visit her. "Hey there, Chad."

The female Nation didn't look up. She sat at her desk, her back to him doing the usual—putting new guns together, repairing old ones. Chad did not falter in her work for even a second upon hearing Libya's voice, and her dejected boyfriend sighed heavily. "Why are you so mad?"

She didn't answer. A puckish smile made its way to Libya's face. "Are you mad because I cheated? I only let Sudan fuck me because you gave Egypt a blowjob. And I know, I know, you only gave Egypt a blowjob because I gave Central African Republic a handjob, but see, I only did that because I found out about that threesome you had with Niger and Mali. You see what I'm saying here? We do that kind of thing to each other all the time, I don't know why you're—"

"You scared me half to death."

"Huh?"

"What you did scared me. I saw you tied up like that, in that position… I thought that Sudan was doing something awful to you."

Libya thought about it, but still couldn't find what was wrong with the picture. "So, he tied me down, put some tape over my mouth. That's not so bad. It's not the worst I've let someone do to me."

"You don't know what big brother Sudan is like."

"Yeah, because you never want to tell me about him."

Chad rose from her chair so abruptly that it nearly fell over backwards. Libya flinched back. "I don't need to tell you!" She turned to look over her shoulder, eyes ablaze. "Pick up any African history book! He's one of the monsters of this continent!"

Libya frowned. "Chad, relax—"

"No! I thought that he was hurting you! My heart broke when I saw him treating you that way, doing what he wanted to you like you weren't worth anything. My brother… I thought he took you against your will!"

Finally spelling it out for him, Libya understood the magnitude of what she meant, and quickly began to correct her. "No, no, it wasn't like that—"

"I know. I watched what happened the whole way through because… because… it tortured me seeing you like that, but at the same time I couldn't look away. It was like watching an entire village go up in flames. I felt like if I let you suffer alone like that, then it would be like a betrayal to you, so I had to suffer with you. But then, then I found out that you _let_ him do those sick things to you, that you _enjoyed it…_ and honestly, I don't know which would've been worse."

Libya sighed heavily, rubbed his temples. "You know, Chad… your brother is a real weirdo. Maybe even a monster, like you say. Like, halfway through… it was the first time I ever second guessed what I was doing, because just _the look in his eyes_ freaked me out so bad. But what could I do at that point? He had already tied me down." Libya looked at her with his red-brown eyes, the color like that of a sunset or scorched earth. "He refused to fuck me unless I was tied down, you know."

Chad's shoulders slumped, and she brought up a hand to her forehead. "Oh, Libya…"

"And when he did start to screw me, I figured out why he wanted to restrain me, because _he_ has no restraint and he knows it. He didn't want me trying to stop him. So I just closed my eyes and pretended it was like, Saudi Arabia or something—"

"Wait, wait, _Saudi Arabia?_" Chad asked incurdiously.

"Yeah, I mean, him and Sudan have about the same body type, and they both fuck just as hard, only Saudi didn't tie me up when we did it—"

"_You screwed Saudi Arabia?"_ Chad cried. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Libya smiled impishly. "Technically, he screwed me. And it was before we got together so I figured it was inconsequential. But… when it comes to your bro, I mean, I have to confess—once I got over the pain it _felt _good. But you can't exactly say that I full on liked doing it with Sudan, seeing as I was pretending like I wasn't even there."

"But he made you open your eyes to look at him," Chad mumbled.

"Yeah. But, but then I noticed, how he had freckles on his chest, these black spots on his already dark skin, and I found some comfort in that because it reminded me of you."

"Why would something like that remind you of me?"

"Because, you have those same types of freckles, but on your back. Didn't I ever tell you? I could've sworn I did." Libya walked over to her. "Sometimes, when we're in bed and you're sleeping on your stomach, I'll stay up and look at your back. You have 64 freckles, and I can make out shapes in them, like the big dipper or the zodiac. It's almost like your back is the sky and your freckles are the stars."

Chad's eyes softened, almost as though they were melting. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah. And then, I started remembering other things about you. Like your hair. It's really coarse and dry, like your desert, but you still manage to make it look pretty every day. And how your eyes are really sharp, like the sun, and sometimes they get so, so full of emotion that they're actually hard to look at. And then your mouth, and your ears with all those piercings, and your cute, round nose… it's like those are all the oasis' in your desert. You're wonderful, you know?" Libya chuckled. "The only good thing about Sudan is that he has a beautiful, amazing sister named Chad." If the room had been any brighter, Chad would have seen the glowing blush on Libya's face. "So, yeah. A-Anyway, why don't I take you out for some dinner, take your mind off of your internal strife and your crazy big brother."

Chad glanced back at her guns, but before she could deny, he had already grabbed her by the wrist and was dragging her away. Chad grumbled some in annoyance, but couldn't keep her smile away.

_My Libya. No matter what, I will always…_

**42: Reverse**

In 1986, someone bombed Tripoli.

In the middle of the night. Libya had been sleeping, dreamless as always, until a sudden blast woke him up; he sat upright in a flash. It was far away and the sound of it was dulled out, but it left him breathless, his bones shaking. And then a moment later, he _felt_ it, as if something had clamped down on his heart, tearing it to shreds. His mouth opened in a silent scream and his hand flew up to his chest, his fingers digging into the fabric, as if he thought that maybe he'd be able to reach into his own chest cavity and free his heart of the bear trap that it was caught in. Libya took a deep breath, tried to scream, and found that he had lost his voice.

Gripping one of his bed post's, he dragged himself out of bed. Leaning against the wall, with shuffling feet, he made it out of his bedroom and started down the hall. Who could he go to? Names raced through his mind. At first, he thought of Iran and Syria, but they lived too far away. Egypt? No, he had problems of his own and most likely wouldn't be able to contend with his. Russia was too preoccupied with Afghanistan to be of much help. That only left Chad, but they had just finished their war and she was still bitter towards him. Was there really no one that he could turn to?

Libya stopped walking, and he could feel himself sliding down the wall and to the floor. His heart was still aflame. In the back of his mind, he heard screaming, men, women, children, all Libyan and all his and again, he wanted to scream, but couldn't.

To be immobilized so easily, by such a shameless attack… what kind of country was he? Despite the pain, or perhaps because of it, he slammed his fist down on the floor, punching it in all his rage. _I'm so weak! Why am I so damn weak?_

The next day, his boss had found him on the floor, his fists bloody and his breath shallow. The man had just lost his daughter, and perhaps this is why he treated Libya with such care for the first (and last) time; he just lost a child, and he was not about to lose his country.

They found out later that the United States had been the Nation behind the attack, hiding behind the excuse that he had been trying to kill the extremists that Libya harbored (he killed none, but of course, America insisted that that was beside the point).

America had been trying to kill terrorists? Libya almost laughed at the irony. The so-called Land of the Free had attacked him in the middle of the night, destroyed property, killed innocent civilians, killed the _first daughter_, and yet all that was done in the name of anti-terrorism?

"Maybe you should bomb yourself then," Libya seethed. "You're the only terrorist I see."

**43: Changing**

Libya took a look to his left, and there was Syria. He craned his neck to look past her, and there stood Iran. They were both staring straight ahead at the future, their gazes unwavering, their sights set. For all the years that he had known them, the two had hardly changed. Their wants and needs had remained the same. Their bond with each other had not wavered, and their shoulders had never stopped touching, not even once.

Libya tore his gaze away from them and turned his attention to himself. He found that he was alone; not too far away from the two of them, but not nearly as connected as before. Iran and Syria had long thrown their roots into the ground, but Libya had always been different. He was far more comfortable with the idea of moving around, but it seemed that no matter which way he turned, each step would only serve to take him further away from the two Nations who meant the most to him. He was at a crossroads—he had been for quite some time—and he knew that he could go in whichever direction he liked. Or he could stay where he was. And he loved his two best friends, he really did, but with each passing day the choice that he had made for past thirty years became less and less appealing. He knew that he had to start walking. He had to move on.

He promised himself that he would not break ties. That he would not _allow_ himself to break ties. Not after all the three of them had been through, united by war and glued together by promise. Once upon a time, it was the three of them versus the rest of the Middle East… and they _won._ Libya knew that he would never be able to cut the binds that had wrapped themselves around himself and Syria and Iran. He was far too invested. He… could never forget.

He turned back to his choices. Libya was at a crossroads, and had been for quite some time. And he loved Iran and Syria, he really did, but he knew that he has to start walking.

He made his choice. Slowly, quietly, Libya took his first step.

**44: Dream **

_Right from the beginning, Libya knew how it would end. _

_In some place both real and imaginary, symbolic and solid, Libya stood in the center of a circle and around him stood the contenders. Gadhafi. Gadhafi's children. Al Qaeda. They all leered at him like hyenas, watching him with hungry eyes. Libya wrapped his arms around himself, wanting to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible, but it was too late for that now—they had all zeroed in on him. They weren't about to let this go._

Libya is not Tunisia. He is not Egypt.

_Right from the beginning, he knew how it would end. _

_He stood facing the villain's, but behind him suddenly came the chanting of hero's, of martyr's, of perhaps the some of the bravest people there ever was or would be. __Libya turned to see his people, all 6,500,000 of them, standing there as worthy contenders for the fate of their country. They were armed with little more than out-dated weapons, the Qur'an, the old Libyan flag and their conviction that it was either now, or never. Libya belonged to them. After 42 years, they had finally come to take him back. _

_Right from the beginning, he knew how it would end. _

_Without thinking about the villains still stationed behind him, Libya started towards his people, but quick hands held him back. The Gadhafi's. Seeing this, his people knew at once: _it's now or never._ They charged forward and managed to grab some of their country, and it became a game of tug-of-war. And Libya was left up in the air. Who would win?_

_The North African fell under and found himself being trampled, purposefully by his boss and accidentally by his people. Libya tried to scream but his voice was silenced by a large pair of hands that clamped around his neck. Was that death, or Al Qaeda? The two always did have the same aura. _

_And soon, he could feel that aura all around him. He could feel himself being torn apart and all he could see was the end._

_Libya knew how this would end._

**45: Wings**

Libya awoke from the dream that wasn't really a dream. The floor was cold. He was in pain.

Gadhafi locked his own country away in some remote room in his largest home in Tripoli, all the way up on the last floor. The room was bare, there was but one window.

One window…

Libya knew that he was running out of time. One day he would awaken to find his boss and his family celebrating their victory, the defeat of the Libyan people. If his people were defeated then he would be, too. If they lost here, his boss would surely send him into seclusion again, this time forever. Gadhafi still had Tripoli, but this did not mean that he had his Nation's heart.

For so long, he had drowned them out, but not anymore. All at once, Libya let them in, and almost immediately he heard 6,500,000 Libyans talking all at once. His sanity fled from him as the words jumbling together and almost crushed his mind—but he loved it. They had never been able to speak to him like this before. His people wanting justice for themselves wasn't horrible, it was _beautiful_. Libya was the embodiment of his people. He belonged to them and no one else.

Libya opened the sole window in his prison, let the night wind run through him. He heard it's whispering. The east was calling him, begging him to come, because without his support, how could Benghazi ever win? Libya smiled to himself. All his life, he could never really feel their pride, but at that moment he felt it stronger than anything else. He never felt more loved.

_One day, the whole world will see you through my eyes._

With 6,500,000 voices leading the way, Libya freed himself from Gadhafi's grip and flew away from his prison, soaring to his people with wide, open arms. He was almost like a bird for a moment, and didn't even seem scared when gravity kicked in and he began to fall. His entire life had been one big fall so he wasn't afraid of it anymore. He needed to run away from his boss and his jail, because if he didn't, if he stayed—

He didn't want to know what would happen if he stayed.

When Libya hit the ground he heard something crack, felt something within him tear, but he fought through the near-blinding pain and forced his body to work for him. He made his legs sprint west for Al Zawiya—he could feel an uprising there, and it was far closer than any of the eastern cities.

But by the time Libya made it to Al Zawiya, the town was under such heavy siege that it rivaled that of the onslaught during WWII. He hadn't seen such carnage in years, and death had never affected him much but this was the first time that anyone was actually fighting for _him_, not one of his boss' or for any higher power. Libya felt sick just looking at it; he truly didn't think that he was worth one human life, let alone thousands.

So it didn't surprise Libya when they began to retreat. Along with all the other voices in his head, he overheard the rebel's plans to head back east to Benghazi now that they'd lost Al Zawiya. But that wasn't the only thing that Libya overheard, like his boss' soldiers going over orders that came from Gadhafi himself. They already knew that their Nation had escaped, and they knew that he was somewhere in Al Zawiya. Their orders were to capture him and bring him back to Tripoli by any means.

Libya looked around frantically; most of the rebels had already left, but there were still a few left behind. He ran over and began to bang on the side of a truck that was getting ready to leave.

"Wait! _Wait!_ Take me with you!" Libya cried out, red-brown eyes pleading.

"Who are you?" one of them asked.

Libya stared incurdiously at the man for a few moments, before he remembered the awful reality: almost none of his own people had seen him in nearly 42 years; Gadhafi had made sure of it. Of course none of the younger generations would know who he was. But some part of him didn't want to believe that it was true. "You… you've gotta know who I am, though."

"I'm sure I don't. Move out of the way, we don't have room for any more."

"No, no, you've got to know—"

"Wait, Libya?"

Someone had inquired from within the truck, and Libya craned his head to see who it was. "Yes, that's me!"

"L-Libya…? Libya! It's you! I can't believe it; I never thought I would see you again!"

It was an older man speaking, one who looked to be about in his 60s, someone who would remember life before the coup. When Libya was allowed to go and be anywhere he wanted, when his people knew his face well.

"What did you call him?" the driver asked incurdiously.

"What do you mean?" the older man pointed at Libya. "This young man is our country, he _is_ Libya! Surely, you know of this kind!"

"Of course, who doesn't know of that special brand of people? But…" the man looked over at Libya, his expression a mixture of skepticism and awe. "I didn't think our race had a person like this…"

"All countries and regions and ethnic groups have people like me," Libya explained quickly; they had to leave. "Even ours. My boss just locked me away once he took power!"

"Boss?"

"Gadhafi! Gadhafi! Please, we have to go, they're coming! They want to take me away again to the prison, but I refuse! _I'll never go back!_" Libya cried, his entire body surging with conviction—he knew for sure then that no, he never would go back. He was either free or dead.

"Let him in!" the older man insisted. "It's been 42 years, but I would recognize my country anywhere. He is who he says he is!"

"But he could be a spy!"

Gunshots. Pain in his chest. Libya fell forward from the impact of the bullets, could feel himself sliding down to the floor. Behind him, his soldiers were shouting, something about having found the embodiment. The driver quickly opened the door and they all pulled him in, seating him between the driver and the man in the passenger's seat. Libya felt his head loll back. His world began to fade to white.

The last things were the roof of the car, gunshots, speeding away, and "_Allah 'Akbar!"._

Sometime later, either hours or days, Libya would wake up at the worst possible time, to a childish voice that belonged to a woman who still had the heart of a child.

_Libyaaaaa!_

The Nation's eyes fluttered against the brightness; he wanted to see who it was. The voice sounded awfully familiar.

_Shhh, don't be afraid. Don't worry, okay? Everything's gonna be fine. Didn't I tell you once? This is all part of the plan!_

Searing pain. Libya's eyes shot open and above him were doctor wearing gloves covered in blood and his chest was wide open and all Libya could hear was the sound of his own screaming. Someone hit him hard on the head and then the darkness came again.

_So I guess it wasn't such a good idea to wake you up while you were getting surgery, huh?_

Somewhere in the heart of Benghazi, Libya stared up at the hospital ceiling, the machines the doctors had insisted would keep him alive buzzing faintly in the otherwise dead-silent room. To Tripolitania, he smiled cynically, eye twitching slightly. "You think?"

_Sorry about that. I just figured that they might have given you some painkillers or something._

"They have nothing like that here. They ran out long ago… even I know that, and I just got here."

_Hey, hey! I just got here, too! This is brother Cyrenaica's territory, I look after Tripoli and the western cities. You know that!_

"Okay." Libya said plainly. He sighed heavily, and asked, "Do you think that they'll win?"

_Who?_

"The rebel's. Cyrenaica's people. Do you think they'll be the winners in all this?"

_Well, first of all, they aren't Cyrenaica's people anymore, they're yours. And as for them winning… I donno. You tell me. You already know the outcome of all this, don't you?_

"I do. I was just asking for your opinion on it."

_I donno, hun. I think that your battle against the dark will be the longest and hardest out of anyone. But, think of it this way—no one ever really noticed you before this. Your people identified themselves more with their tribes than as your citizens. But! Because of all this, that's all changed! You're people proudly call themselves Libyan now, and everyone knows your name! Everyone loves you, Libya!_

"Not everyone."

_You're butt-wipe boss doesn't count._

"No. I'm sure there's someone out there who still hates me."

_As if! No. Libya is a charmer. He went to war with his neighbor Chad for almost 10 years, and now she's his girlfriend. He went against everyone in his region to be a good friend to Iran, but no one held it against him. He's still friends with Italy, even though the two idiot brothers almost starved him to death during WWII. And he helps to united Africa, something that no one other Arab state wants to do. For this, he attracts love from everybody!_

"Like who." He didn't ask it as a question. It was a statement to prove to her that his status as one of the more hated Nation's hadn't changed.

_Like Tunisia! He beams when he tells people about you, he even once said that you outdid him, can you imagine that! And your cousin Egypt, now he proudly tells people that he's related to you. Chad is over there, across the border, worried sick; she makes Tuareg and Berber give her updates on your situation. So does all of NATO, for that matter. And France… I think he has a crush on you!_

Libya blushed brightly. "France has a crush on anything with a heartbeat." And he hoped to Allah that the last part was true.

_Well, whatever. Point is, you're not alone anymore. No matter who wins, people will be learning about you for years and years to come. You aren't going to end up like me—no one will ever forget you!_

Libya sat up, looked over to the far right, where his window was. He was on the ground floor and beyond the clear glass was his land and his sky, tainted with debris. "Do you think that I'll have a civil war?"

_I don't know! Do I look like a fortune teller?_

Libya remained quiet for a moment, thinking, deciding. Just when Tripolitania began to wonder if their conversation had ended, Libya mumbled, "You know… even if something like a civil war were to happen, I wouldn't mind. If three separate countries is what they want, they can have it. I'll gladly give my people anything to make them happy, even if the one thing that will happens to be my life."

He could hear the pride in Tripolitania's voice. _My son. Only you would say something like that._

They stopped talking then, and Libya continued to look out towards the sky. He knew how this would end. No matter what happened, he belonged to his people.

* * *

**A/N:** If you survived all of that in one shot, then congrats! Here are the historical notes:

37: In 2004, five Belgian nurses and one Palestinian doctor working abroad in Libya were accused of purposefully infecting 400 Libyan children with HIV. Obviously, Libya would have been furious. Furious enough to go after Belgium, though not Palestine, of course! Libya feels sorry for him and hates Israel's guts!

The six of them were sentenced to death, and they appealed the conviction. Libya's supreme court ordered a retrial, and they were sentenced to death again. Another retrial. Sentenced to life in prision. Then let go of shortly after through a deal with the European Union. What a world.

38: Libya and Egypt love! Just wanna make clear the type of guy Libya is, because "400" may have been a little misleading lol.

39: Okay, so… if countries were made strictly along ethnic lines, then today Libya wouldn't exist. Libya is technically three ancient Nations combined: Tripolitania, Fezzan, and Cyrenaica. Tripolitania would be his mother because all throughout Libya's history it has been the most populated area of Libya (about 2/3) and it's where the capital derives its name from. Tripolitania, Fezzan and Cyrenaica were made into one country and named "Libya" upon the Roman takeover (with that said… GEE, I WONDER WHO LIBYA'S FATHER IS.)

And… I guess Libya's three predecessors would have died when the Islamic crusaders came along, just like almost all the other Middle Eastern parent Nations.

So, when it comes to Libya and Tripolitania's relationship… she's more of a friend to him than a mother, which as we all know isn't necessarily good. It's why Libya thought it was okay to hate her when he figured out how fragile his existence was because of her. But, those are more character devices, I suppose.

40: And so. Zimbabwe and Myanmar were taken over by England. Iraq and Syria were taken by Turkey. Belarus by Russia, Cuba by Spain, North Korea by Japan…

And then there's Libya. He was colonized by Italy. Try not to laugh at him too much.

But in all seriousness, don't let Italy's cuteness fool you—he treated Libya horribly, pretty much going on a genocidal campaign of forced migration, giving all the best lands in Libya to ethnic Italians and forcing Libya to help attack Egypt (you remember that episode where Italy went and tried to invade Egypt? And Egypt started fighting back with a stick? Libya should have been there).

But see, no one would believe Libya when he tried to tell them about how mean Italy was, so by now he's pretty much stopped trying. To Italy's credit, though, he did apologize, which is more than most other imperialistic Nations can say.

41: Before I get to their relationship now, a brief on the history between Chad and Libya:

From roughly 1978-1987, Chad and Libya were at war, fighting over the Aouzou Strip, a piece of territory between the two of them. Long story short, Chad won. As a result, Chad hated Libya for a little while, and Libya felt reeeeeeaaaally guilty, so he started to help her out with aid and whatnot, defended her without reward on the international stage, helped to bring about an end to her civil war, and was the first to recognize Idriss Déby Itno as Chad's new boss when he took over in 1990 (he's still her boss today, and is a dictator in his own right, though at the time things seemed pretty hopeful with him). That won her over after some time, one thing lead to another…

Anyway. A rivalry still exists between the two, I guess. Now that they don't want to kill each other anymore, they hurt each other though having this silent competition over who can sleep with the most people. Um… when it comes to Sudan. He's crazy. Like, scary crazy. He isn't even a yandere, he's just terrifying—but then again, having a 35 year civil war will do that to you. He's like the Russia of Africa—as in, he'd be the token rapist if he were ever on the actual show (I hope for impossible things).

Chad is his little sister, and pretty much the only person he's never tried to hurt/maim/rape/kill. He has three kids (dear lord, he does): Khartoum (Northern Sudan), Juba (Southern Sudan) and Darfur (Western Sudan). I'm not going to get too deep into his relationship with them, I'll just keep this on Libya:

Their sleeping together was consensual, in case I didn't make it clear enough… but, of course, Chad saw things differently. Why didn't she intervene? Well, in Arab culture (northern Chadians are considered to be Arab, I believe), rape is considered to be a _huge_ embarrassment. It's not something the victim talks about under any circumstances, whether the victim be male or female. This is why Chad would have thought of it as better to not intervene, because even if she did manage to stop it, it would have ruined her relationship with Libya—things would have never been the same in their already-troubled relationship.

But, there was nothing to stop! And Libya charms his way back into Chad's heart after she finds out the truth and is furious with him for the thousandth time. Good lord, is this pairing just… stressful *sweatdrops*

42: In 1986, America bombed Tripoli in retaliation for the Lockerbie Scandal (look it up, I'm too lazy to explain and I didn't even include it in the story). Anyway, 101 people were killed, including Gadhafi's adopted daughter (THIS IS THE _ONLY_ TIME ANYONE SHOULD EVER. EVER. FEEL EVEN SLIGHTLY SORRY FOR THIS GUY).

43: in 2002, seeing what happened to Saddam Hussein, Gadhafi decided to make friends with the West. This, in sharp contrast to what Iran and Syria have been doing.

Iran, Syria and Libya could pretty much form a group of their own. During the Iraq-Iran War, Libya was one of the few countries to help out Iran, along with Syria. So… yeah. They're firneds, though I think Iran and Syria would have been tempted to disown him once they found out about his quest to kiss and make up with the likes of America.

44: Just the different things that could end up happening to Libya during this civil war of his: Gadhafi can win, the rebels can win, or some crazy shit could happen and Libya could end up being the next Afghanistan (with Islamists taking over). Frankly, that last option is the least likely of the three, seeing as Libya doesn't have a huge Islamist problem… most of the foreign insurgent fighters in Iraq came from Libya, but 200 extremists doesn't really represent the population, does it?

And… just my take on things: Am I the only one who thinks of Al Qaeda as having its own embodiment? Just throwing it out there

45: Okay, just my crazy head canon on Libya's situation right now. I tried to keep the projected end of all this as open-ended as possible, seeing as nothing is set in stone at this point. Uh... Tuareg and Berber are two non-Arab ethnic groups that live within Libya. And France... well, I'm convinced that France has this huge, huge crush on Libya, a "pure" one (like, he doesn't just wanna screw Libya and then GTFO). And Libya's crushing right back! Other than that, there's actually not much of historical note for this one… okay. So we're done.

And that's it for Libya. Next is wonderful Cuba ^_^


	6. Havana

**A/N:** Oh, mai. Did I take a while with this one.

But, yes. Here is Cuba. And here is the response to my lovely reviews~!

Little Miss Molly: Thank you so much! Good lord, can't wait till I can take a class like that… oh, well, have to get through my senior year of highschool first xP

SovietSniper92: Well, I hope that Cuba's chapter here lives up to your expectations! And good god, no, if I ever dared make an Al Qaeda OC it would most definitely not be a chibi ._. Or are you saying tht it was someone else who did that?

Assamite: Nope :3 You'll find out in chapter 8!

Sooo with that said, let's get going!

**Disclaimer:** It's not okay how Cuba is one of the most ignored canon characters. If I owned Hetalia, _the awful yet beautiful things that I would do with Cuba would surely make him a fan-favorite_ *creepy wide-eyed grin* (However, I don't own Hetalia, which is the point of this mini-rant here)

**Chapter 6: Havana**

**46: Collection**

Life was but a collection of little fleeting things that brought bits of happiness. Cuba understood this well.

Once upon a time, his only little thing had been his beloved little brother, Puerto Rico, but his revolution had changed all of that; America cut diplomatic connections, and he lost Puerto Rico indefinitely. But with that loss he gained other things and people.

For one thing, Russia. Cuba was strange in the way that he perceived people; after spending his entire life around the insanity of his father, America's eccentricity, and an array of siblings who were always yellingyellingyelling, Cuba had lost the ability to tell apart sanity from insanity. To him, Russia was perfectly normal, a playful Nation who no one should fear. The true hero of the world. The pillar of justice. He didn't understand how anyone, including the other Soviet states, could ever fear him.

And Belarus. To Cuba, Belarus was simply a girl who loved too much, and the Latin American saw nothing wrong with that. And he knew where she was coming from, all too well, so he understood her in that special way, and that had the normally violent girl at ease around him. Cuba was well aware of Belarus' violent tendencies, but the way he saw it, she only acted that way around those who didn't understand her, to the ones who wrongly judged her for being in love with Russia, the fools who she perceived as a threat to her beloved big brother.

There was also Canada. He had the tendency to mix him up with his infuriating brother to the south, even over the phone, but once they got passed that the two ended up best of friends, looking out for each other, taking silly pictures together, eating ice cream and doing yoga together. He couldn't stand most Westerners (he refused to acknowledge that technically, Latin America was in the West), but Canada was the exception.

In addition, he also got to know Dominican Republic and Haiti on a deeper level. Neither of them were ever socialist, but even at the height of the Cold War they still managed to stay connected with one another. Haiti became the sister of his heart, someone he felt compelled to take care of, ignoring how she wouldn't be able to pay him back in the foreseeable future (if ever). And Dominican Republic both reminded him a lot of Puerto Rico (despite them being rivals) and was also a breath of fresh air, noticeably different, down-to-earth and humble in a way that Puerto Rico never was.

Life was but a collection of little fleeting things which brought bits of happiness. They were like his prizes, and they were all fleeting but Cuba held onto them anyway, because that was what life was.

**47: Empty**

"Do you want a snack? Are you hungry?"

Cuba slowly lifted his head, buzzing with ill-formed thoughts, just barely registering what his Papi had just asked him. The boy lay on the floor, unmoving from where he had been left all those hours ago. The slashes across his back still stung and bled sluggishly, his shirt sticking to him. His entire body felt heavy, as if a thousand invisible pounds lay on top of him. He took a look around, eyes half lidded and his vision hazy. Spain repeated his question, and Cuba turned his head to face him, knowing which direction to face by the sound of his voice alone. Slowly, he nodded his head, and Spain waited patiently as his son picked himself up and slowly walked over to him.

He followed Spain to the kitchen, where his sister Chile already sat. With her short hair, incredible height and lack of figure, she could've easily been mistaken for a boy. Their fathers known favorite, Italia Romano, stood just a few feet away, broom in hand but unmoving as he watched Spain and Cuba enter the room.

Cuba sat down across from Chile as Spain quickly prepared a meal for his two children. Time passed slowly as he waited with his sister, and he could almost physically feel Romano's gaze as the little Italian boy stared at him intently, incredulously, his eyes wide with... confusion? Shock? Cuba shied away from the boy who stood at his left, reeling with shame and refusing to look in his general direction. He tightly clenched his eyes and the wounds on his back began to throb. He tried to think of other things, to daydream about something trivial but found that he could not; all he could focus on was the pain radiating from his back and the pair of hazel eyes that he just knew were still glued on him.

"Son? Are you okay?"

Cuba opened one eye to find his Papi staring down at him, two plates of food in his hands. Spain's eyes held this strange, strange look that his son might've mistaken as concern, if he didn't know any better. He nodded his head, and maybe it was a lie, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to voice the truth. He was pretty sure that his father knew, anyway; really, who could be that oblivious?

Unless his father was mentally ill, a possibility that Cuba was outright terrified to acknowledge, as if his thoughts could be read by his abuser.

Spain gave him an eerily cheerful smile. "Well, if you say so!" He then set the plates down in front of his two children. He took Romano by the arm and all but dragged him out of the kitchen, and even as they left, South Italy still turned his head back to look at Cuba, to stare at his bloodied back. The Latin American Nation—then colony—couldn't have been happier when he finally felt the little boys presence leave the room. He then turned his attention to his food. It wasn't a lot, nor was it of very good quality, but even so; distractions were distractions.

He ate quickly and almost without chewing, barely tasting what was in his mouth before he swallowed. Cuba never did taste what he ate; he wasn't a fan of food, but loved eating in itself. He always felt hollow, so what better way to fill up the hollowness than to eat? It always did make him feel a little better, but at the same time, it was never enough.

Opposite of him, Chile barely touched her food. This was nothing new; the girl was skinny to the point where it was unflattering, unlike her robust brother. She cut up her food, took a bite, and found that she could not eat anymore. And so she sat and waited for her brother to finish eating (and it never ceased to amaze her how quickly he could finish), before she quietly pushed her plate over to him. He ate it without asking questions. It was an unspoken ritual between the two of them, between a boy who ate too much and a girl who barely ate at all.

**48: Venezuela**

Venezuela hadn't always looked at him with those hungry eyes. At least, Cuba didn't think he did.

He remembered the first time being sometime in the 1998, just after a new president of his was sworn in. At the time, he thought that perhaps, it was Venezuela realizing something for the first time; or maybe Venezuela's feelings had been growing over the years, silently and unknown, until it all came tumbling out. Or perhaps, what Venezuela felt towards him had always been there, and he just never noticed.

"Ah, you know, big brother?" Venezuela began, his voice soft, the laugher still in his voice. Cuba could remember, he and Venezuela had been talking; he'd just finished saying something that made his brother laugh. "You're real funny. That's what I always liked about you, your hilarious, but not in a stupid kind of way like that asshole, Colombia," Venezuela shook his head, not knowing that what he'd just said caught Cuba off guard. He thought that Venezuela loved Colombia, but perhaps, he was wrong? Or maybe they just had a fight. As he wondered about this, before he could react, Venezuela reached up and touched Cuba's face, rubbing it slightly. The island Nation fought off the urge to push him away (only Puerto Rico had ever done that, and he didn't like things that reminded him of his estranged brother). Venezuela laughed slightly. "Such a soft face! Softer than it looks. But you're handsome, too, in that manly kind of way. So softness can be forgiven."

Cuba felt his face grow warm. He couldn't help himself; it always made him uncomfortable when he was complimented so blatantly. And he only felt himself grow even more self-conscious when he saw the way Venezuela was looking at him, his eyes wide, almost crazed (but not quite). The younger country seemed almost nervous, his voice faint and unsure, when he told him "You know, that little _puto_, Puerto Rico, was stupid to ever let you go. Choosing America over you is like choosing a rhinestone over a diamond. Give me that decision, and I'd choose you every time."

"_Gracias,"_ he whispered, unable to say anything else, not noticing how Venezuela was still touching his face. He went over what he'd just been told in his mind, and suddenly, it hit him. He took Venezuela's wrist and tore his hand away. "Don't call our Puerto Rico a _puto_, man, what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing." Venezuela told him, not fighting back at all, even when Cuba's grip around his wrist tightened. "I just think that he made the wrong choice. I mean, _look_ at you…" Cuba didn't know why, but all these compliments were only making him angrier. After a few long moments of staring at him intensely, Venezuela winced. "_Hermano_, ah, you're hurting me…"

Cuba let go, and stood. As he walked away, he told himself that this had never happened. He told himself that the next time he saw Venezuela, he wouldn't act so weird. He would realize that he'd gone too far, and never tell him such strange things again.

**49: Gran Colombia**

But if anything, Venezuela's feelings became stronger, and in 2009, when the younger Nation's crush began to reach levels of obsession, Cuba knew that he had to get it to stop. The two Nations that Venezuela was the closest to were Colombia and Ecuador; the three of them, along with Panama, had won their independence in 1819 as one country, Gran Colombia. They were undeniably among the closest of all his siblings, and he knew that if there was any way of getting through to Venezuela, it would be through Colombia and Ecuador.

He called Ecuador first, knowing that she would be the easiest to convince. Their boss' were very close and, when it came to her character, Ecuador herself was quite easy-going, to the point that she almost seemed apathetic to a lot of what was going on around her. As expected, when he called her, she received him with open arms; she was always happy to hear from big-brother Cuba, after all. He asked if he could meet with her, to talk with her in concern to Venezuela. She seemed curious, asking why, but Cuba only told her that if she wanted to know, they'd have to speak face-to-face.

"And can you bring Colombia along, too?" he asked, hoping to kill two birds with one stone. Indeed, over the past couple of years something about Colombia had changed. He wasn't as warm or as friendly as he used to be. Whenever Cuba tried to talk to him, there was an obvious awkwardness, like some unseen barrier. He knew that, if he asked Colombia to come, his little brother would most likely say no.

"I'll see what I can do, but I'm making no promises."

Cuba opened his mouth to counter, to ask her why she couldn't promise Colombia's attendance at their little meeting; after all, weren't they close? Gran Colombia didn't exist anymore, but the bonds were still there… right? But just as he'd been about to ask, she hung up unexpectedly, and Cuba could only hope for the best.

He sat in his desk weeks later, on the designated date, waiting for Ecuador and (hopefully) Colombia. After about an hour of waiting, he door opened, and in walked Ecuador; she had already made it into his office by a few feet when she looked behind her, saw that no one was there, and yelled out, "Get in here! Stop being a baby!"

At that provocation, Colombia slowly made his way into the room. Cuba could tell just by _looking_ at him that Colombia had not wanted to come, that Ecuador had to use every trick in the book in order make him. Cuba stood and came over to Ecuador, hugged her, kissed both of her cheeks. He held out his hand to Colombia for a handshake, somehow knowing that his brother to the south would never accept one of his hugs; and yet, as Cuba stood there with his arm outstretched and his palm up, Colombia made no moves to complete the handshake. Cuba dropped his arm a few long moments later, and invited them both to sit down.

"How long is this going to be?" Colombia asked before Cuba had even made it back to his desk; he froze mid-step and looked behind him, raising an eyebrow. Colombia sighed. "I mixed around a lot of my more important meetings for this. Frankly, I have only about an hour to spare for this, before I have to start making my way back."

Cuba turned around, full bodied, and sat at the edge of his desk. He crossed his arms. "Bullshit."

"Excuse me?"

"Since when do you like meetings? Since when do you ever go? It's just an excuse, you don't want to be here."

"Oh~!" Colombia clapped, sarcastically. "What gave that away?"

"What's your problem, man? You went from being one of my favorite siblings to being cold and distant almost overnight. What happened? What's your deal?"

"Isn't this little meeting of yours supposed to be about Venezuela?" Colombia narrowed his eyes. "He seems to have taken a liking to you."

"He has. That's what's been bothering me."

"Oh, really?" Ecuador jumped in, trying to defuse the tension in the room, if only a little bit. "What's he been doing?"

"He follows me wherever I go, keeps tabs on the people I interact with, apparently is always talking about me when I'm not around, and…" Cuba looked away, lowering his voice as he went on. "Whenever we hug or touch or anything, I swear to god, it's like he's feeling me up." He sat up straight and slammed his fist against his desk. "It's fucking weird! This shit needs to top, and you two are the only ones who can talk some sense into him, I'm sure."

"And like you don't benefit from his near-obsession with you," Colombia spat.

"I benefit from him being an ally, but trust me, I can do without all the creepy shit that comes along with it."

"You really don't get it, do you?" Colombia leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "I don't know why Venezuela has taken such a sudden and intense liking towards you. Maybe it was always there and we just never saw it, who knows? All I'm sure of is that what he feels for you has turned him against me, against America, against all the people who could be doing him a world of good. You aren't as stupid as you look. Or as kind. I see right through your plan. You know that Venezuela holds you at such high regard, that he's willing to do _anything_ to please you. So you continuously rebuff him, just so he'll have to try harder to make you happy. I have to admit, as treacherous as that plan is, it is quite clever."

Truth be told, that hadn't been Cuba's plan at all. He had no plans concerning Venezuela on such a deep, personal level—and the fact that Colombia thought that he did proved just how much his estranged brother had overanalyzed this whole situation. "Bro," Cuba began, raising an eyebrow. "You been getting into that cocaine, or what?"

Colombia's eyes widened to the size of saucers, and he looked as though he wanted to pounce on Cuba. "And that's why I don't want _my_ brother anywhere near you! Because of your whole plan, he's now hurting _me! _He's supporting FARC, my left-wing terrorists, because he wants to please you, our little-red-Marxist-_hermano_. This, all of this, is your fault. You are the only one to blame. My brother is turning his back on everything, turning himself into a _dictatorship_ over you, and yet all you can think about is how much his affections bother you. Why don't you tell Venezuela how you really feel yourself? Just break his heart already. _Shatter_ it, because it's what he deserves, for hurting me, for warping Ecuador, and for _ever_ falling for someone like you."

Cuba remained quiet for a few moments, looking off to the side, his face betraying no emotion. Then, he whispered, "You know what, _hermanito?_ I'm not going to do that. But what I will ask of you is that you leave my office and my house before I end up doing something that I'll regret."

"Gladly. I said what I needed to say." With that, Colombia rose and left, leaving Cuba and Ecuador behind.

The only female in the room had been strangely quiet throughout the entire thing, and Cuba thought that it was perhaps that was her apathy, but then she cleared her throat to speak. "Don't listen to him. He's just going crazy over all his internal conflict."

"Is it true?"

"What?"

"Is it true what he says, that Venezuela's been hurting him because he thought that it would make me happy?"

"… big brother just doesn't understand that FARC means to help him. They are a good organization, they just care for their country so much that they are willing to show him their love by any means necessary. Pain is love, sometimes, and Venezuela is simply trying to make FARC stronger, so that Colombia will someday understand." Ecuador sighed. "I feel bad for Colombia, in a lot of ways. He seems to be very sad over what Venezuela has been doing, not only concerning FARC, but concerning you, too. He thinks that you've taken his place in Venezuela's heart."

Cuba frowned. "He thinks that I… replaced him?"

"Yes. You understand how that would hurt, right?"

He did understand, more than she would ever know. He decided then that he would leave thing be, with Venezuela. Stop rejecting him as much, stop pushing him away. If Colombia was anywhere near right, then perhaps Cuba could sway Venezuela into a couple of things. Things that would leave Colombia feeling less alienated, less replaceable.

It was truly the worst feeling in the world, after all.

**50: Clear Mind**

Late one night, Cuba found himself sitting on the side of the road with his clothes dirty, his face bloodied, and his right hand mangled and probably broken. Next to him sat Iran, his shirt torn and his pants hanging on his hips, his hair a disheveled with clumps of it torn out, his ahoge a crumpled mess, and for once he wasn't smiling. He wore no expression at all, but Cuba knew that underneath his blank stare must've been a deep kind of sadness. And nervousness. They both sat in silence.

With his good hand, Cuba pulled out a cigarette he'd managed to bum off of someone after the fight. He took out a pack of matches from his pants pocket, and held it up to Iran. "Light me?"

Wordlessly, Iran did just that. Though afterwards he resumed what he'd been doing before, staring out into the darkness of the Cuban jungles, the blankness draped over his face once more. Cuba sighed heavily, and tried to clear his mind as he went over what had happened.

Cuba's people. A few of his own people—he was having a hard time grasping this—had attacked Iran, not the country but the person, because they had… suspected something. They held Cuba down and made him watch as they exposed Iran's secret and Cuba… saw something. Then there was the whiteness of blind rage and after that, he and Iran were running running running until they made it onto a main street, where they were looking for a hospital. But before they could do that some of the same people from before came onto the main street and started throwing things at Iran because they... knew something, and there was screaming and fists flew and Cuba did all that he could to defend Iran, the man almost paralyzed in his own shock. Cuba didn't blame him.

Somehow, they'd managed to make it far away from there and onto a desolate road. Cuba didn't know if they were supposed to be hitchhiking or what—all he knew was that he was tired of running.

He looked over at Iran. He wanted to apologize, once, twice, a thousand times. Explain to him that they were in his rural areas at the moment, poor and underdeveloped and uneducated for the most part, and that some of his people were a bit backwards here. He wanted to let Iran know that most of his people wouldn't _dream_ of doing to anyone what had just happened to him, but then he figured, no. Iran already knew all of that. That wasn't what he needed to hear.

"Tonight? It never happened."

Iran blinked, as if coming out of a trance. He looked over to Cuba, a bit dazed. "What?"

"Tonight never happened. I never saw anything."

"But you—"

"I never. Saw. Anything. You're still the same person. You haven't changed to me."

"…so you won't tell anyone?"

"Tell them what?"

Iran studied him, for what seemed like an eternity. Then, his ahoge perked up just a bit, and a small smile graced his face. "Thanks. You're such a good friend."

**51: Torn**

Cuba knew what it was to be replaced, it had happened to him once before. And as he looked at Haiti before him, he hoped that it wasn't about to happen again.

His neighbor to the east was stuck between him and Dominican Republic, both geographically and personally. She didn't know who to choose. And although they got along far better, although he could take care of her in ways Dominican Republic never could, although the two nations of Hispaniola fought almost daily, the choice she was set to make was becoming clearer with each passing day and date cancelled.

So Cuba sat back and let it happen, his genuine apathy surprising him. And he wondered what it would be like to be the replacer, for a change.

**52: Winter**

The first time Cuba visited the Soviet Union, he was nervous.

He walked up the pathway that lead to it, the mansion that was so grandiose and magnificent and beautiful, but still held an air of… tenseness? Dread? Horror? Cuba couldn't quite place a finger on which of the three hung so thickly in the air around him, but he knew that it didn't quite matter in the end, whether the emotion was bad, or worse, or the most terrible. He took slow, careful steps, almost as if he were afraid that if he stepped on one snow covered coble stone too heavily, the whole ground would break underneath him to reveal a sea of endless nothingness, which he would fall into and never be heard from again. A very small voice, which existed only in his head, begged him to turn back. It told him that this house wasn't safe. It warned him that if he didn't leave, if the houses master took _too_ much of a liking to him, then more likely than not he would soon find himself trapped inside, unable to leave a house which in itself was like a pool of great darkness.

The Latin American Nation stopped mid-step, unsure. The voice grew in confidence, and in a tone slightly louder, reminded him that he could still turn back. It told him that he could still go back to the way things were before his mistreated people began to look towards Eastern Europe for help. It told him that it wasn't too late.

_Remember your family: your brothers, Mexico, Dominican Republic, Nicaragua, Venezuela, Puerto Rico, and your father, Spain. You can still go back to—_

Cuba shook his head violently before the voice could continue, and walked on, his steps hard and careless as he stomped up to the door of the Soviet Union. His voice of reason faded to nothing under the strain of the blood pounding in his ears, as a larger, stronger voice emerged in his mind to reassure him that he was doing the right thing. It insisted that Russia was his friend. It reminded him that this was what his people needed; what they would gain in the end would far outweigh what he would lose. The voice was so strong and reassured that he all but completely forgot his doubts about what he was about to do. He made it to the door and pounded on it, determined to make sure that all the Soviet States knew that he was there. He was there and he would be their ally and he would gladly be their spy, their eyes and ears in the west.

And when one of the Baltic's opened the door, he didn't look back as he made his way in.

**53: Syndrome**

"Cuba… has anyone ever, ugh, told you that your tummy is sooooooft?"

Belarus mumbled this as she had her head on Cuba's stomach, rubbing circles against the cloth. She had arrived at Cuba's door looking as though she's had just a bit too much vodka, even for someone with such a high tolerance. She hiccupped every few moments, soft, high-pitched, almost as though she were being taken by surprise each and every time.

Cuba ran his fingers through her platinum-blonde hair, let the strands fall through his fingers. Even her hair smelled of alcohol; it was almost as though she had bathed herself in it. He moved his hand over to her cheek, cold and pasty. "Venezuela told me, once," Cuba admitted.

"I don't like him, that guy… Venezuela…" Belarus half said, half slurred. She rubbed his stomach, a bit more, before suddenly throwing her arms around him completely. Almost in a protective manner. "He makes me mad. He… wants you… all to himself. That's not fair, 'cause _I_ want you all to myself. You sh-should split yourself in half, and let us each-each take a piece."

"Oh, man," Cuba chuckled, wrapping his arm around Belarus. "You are _really_ wasted."

"On…only a little…"

"What happened? Did Russia reject you again?" She nodded, coming up and burying her face in the crook of Cuba's neck. He continued. "I figured as much. Don't worry, one day he'll come around."

"No he won't," she whispered, just loud enough for Cuba to hear. "Why does… big brother treat me… I just love him, but why does he treat me so bad?"

"Guys are like that."

"Not all guys. You… never treat me bad." She held onto him tightly. "I love you, Cuba, I really do."

Cuba nodded, rubbing her back softly. He knew, she was going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning.

**54: Distance**

"Hey, man," Cuba began awkwardly, practically having to force the words out of his mouth. "I haven't seen you in a while."

In 2011, Puerto Rico tensed. He had his back turned to Cuba; he was sweeping the floor of his house in San Juan, and though it technically wasn't allowed, Cuba came to visit him every once in a while. Each time was more awkward and tense than the last. This time, Puerto Rico didn't even bother to turn and face Cuba; he simply resumed his sweeping, hoping that his older brother would take the hint.

"Hey, hey, did you hear?" Cuba began again after a few long and painfully awkward moments of just standing there. "You know, about all the changes going down in my house?"

Puerto Rico didn't falter in his work, didn't stop for a moment, and Cuba felt his heart clench. He wasn't delusional, he knew that ever since his revolution and all the events to come after it, that the brother he was once closest to had developed an immeasurable amount of distain towards him. Cuba knew that Puerto Rico didn't want to see him—that maybe, his fellow island even hated him.

Cuba shook the terrible notion away. _No, Puerto Rico still loves me. __He just forgot that he does._ "I… I'm going to be making my economy more diverse. Like, letting go a lot of state employees and letting people set up their own little business', stuff like that. Don't get me wrong, I'm not letting go of socialism, but… well, I'm just trying to follow in the footsteps of China and Vietnam, you know? Make things better." Puerto Rico continued to ignore him. Cuba licked his lips, and took a step towards his estranged brother. "I had a talk with America the other day."

Now _that_ caused a reaction. Puerto Rico stopped in his work and turned his head slightly. His eyes looked angry and accusing. "Oh? And what did you talk about?"

"Just… about stuff. My economy, his economy. It's always about money with that guy!" Cuba laughed awkwardly, before rubbing the back of his head. "We talked a little bit about you, too. He… he tells me that you want to be the 51st state?" He placed a hand on his little brother's shoulder, and Puerto Rico looked at his hand as if it were disease-ridden, his disgust palpable. "Please, bro, tell me that ain't true."

Puerto Rico continued to stare at his hand for a few long moments, before a cruel smile made its way across his face. "And what if it is?"

Cuba's hand fell away, and he looked at his brother incurdiously. He never, _never_ would have thought… "You're breaking my heart here, you know that?"

"So now _I'm_ the one who breaks hearts? You're the one who abandoned _me_. What's wrong with you? We've spent decades pinned against each other, you tried to destroy America, tried to destroy everything that I've built up, and now, _now_, you want me to return to you like everything's fine? No."

"I'm not asking you to abandon everything. I'm not asking you to leave America, I just don't want you to disregard what we used to have. Remember when we were younger, when we saw all the wars and the conflict between our other siblings, I promised you that that would never be us? That I would never hate you? You were my favorite. Fuck, you're still my favorite, and I wasn't able to keep that first promise, but I kept the second and you _know_ that. But what of you? You made the same promise to me, and you broke them both."

Puerto Rico turned to face him completely, the cruelty gone from his face—but the barrier was still up, Cuba could see. It had been up for decades, and he wondered if he would ever be able to bring it down again. "You know what you did, and _you're_ the reason that I treat you the way I do. Words mean little when compared to actions. But…" the small island rolled his eyes, and set his broom aside, "if it'll make you feel any better, I'm not going to be the 51st state. I don't know why America told you that, I have no desire to have such an irreversible merger with him. But don't get excited!" the young man pointed a bony finger at Cuba. "That doesn't mean that I'm seeking independence, either. I'm happy the way I am. America is good to me. My loyalties lie with him now."

Cuba nodded. "I understand. But can I just say one more thing? I'm gone after this, I swear."

"What."

"I'm going to be honest, I used to be very angry at you. For so long, I felt like you chose America over me, or worse yet, that he _replaced_ me in your heart. I never hated you, but sometimes I just got so angry that I wanted to _throttle_ you, because to me, you were selfish and shallow and only loved people as long as they could take care of you, and—"

"Do you just want to insult me, or do you have a point?"

"I do, I do. Point is, I was pissed at you, but one day I realized. Not only can America provide you with so much more than I could ever give, but he does right by you. He stands for everything you believe in. That's part of the reason why you stay, too. And then I thought, back when Castro took power and me and America had our falling out, maybe you were the one to feel abandoned. And if that's the case, I just want to say that I'm sorry. I was so busy thinking about how you had replaced me, that I never even considered why I had been replaced." Cuba turned away from him, then, and began to walk away. _"_That's really all I have to say. _Adios."_

"Wait."

Cuba looked over his shoulder, and Puerto Rico offered a small smile. "For the record, I never _hated_ you."

_Of course not, you still love me. You just forgot that you do._

* * *

**A/N**: Notes, anyone?

46: This one mostly concerns character devices. I made a lot of references to the 2010 Christmas Bloodbath strip; right before he starts screaming at Canada about how **"EVERYONE'S GONE"**, Cuba starts out all philosophical like, telling Canada that "You've been through it too during your life, where something just *poof* vanishes right? For us it's those we considered friends or little bits of joy you know... Life is just a collection of those things, right?" So, I just decided to expand on that, a bit.

47: My headcanon dictates that Spain is the father to his former colonies in Latin America (from what I've seen, it's the headcanon of most people?). And in the early days, due to all the GENOCIDE RELATED THINGS going on against the indigenous population of not only Cuba, but to of all the Latin American colony's, Spain would have been the equivalent to an abusive father.

Um… I chose Chile to be in this one just because I imagine her physical being as being a reflection of the way Chile itself is shaped: very long and very thin :P And with her being so bony, I wanted someone to be kinda the foil to Cuba when it comes to eating habits.

I know that canon dictates that Cuba is overweight because he… I donno, eats too much ice cream or something, but I've always played with the idea that Cuba could possibly have an eating-disorder. Eating disorders aren't limited to anorexia and bulimia; the term is also applied to the inverse, to those who eat _too_ much, to the point of gluttony, where they are never full or satisfied. More than anything else, to those suffering from binge-eating disorders, it's a compulsion; they don't eat for the pleasure of eating, but because they simply can't help themselves. It's quite serious, and holds just as many risks as anorexia/bulimia does; it leads to (often morbid) obesity, which leads to all sorts of health complications.

Although, I think that in the presents day Cuba isn't as _bad_ as he used to be; he's found things to distract him from food. Like hitting America and fighting for communism and whatnot :D

48/49: …it is my head-canon that Venezuela has this huge, huge crush on Cuba. Like, a watered-down-but-still-quite-creepy version of what Belarus feels for Russia. And Cuba is just a bit freaked out.

So, naturally, he goes to Colombia and Ecuador. Just a quick lesson in modern politics: Venezuela, Colombia and Ecuador used to be close as far as Nations go, but in recent years there has been a break. Ever since Hugo Chavez was elected president of Venezuela in 1998, things between these three have taken a turn for the worst, especially between Colombia and Venezuela.

In simplest terms, "left-wing" political parties/politicians are liberal, and may or may not agree with socialism/communism; while "right wing" is usually in reference to conservative political parties/politicians. With that said, the gov'ts of both Venezuela and Ecuador are left-leaning, while the government in Colombia leans to the right, putting them at opposite ends of the ideological spectrum. To date, most countries in Latin America either have in the past of currently do lean to the left, but the government of Colombia seems to be a bit of an abnormality in this, being consistently right-wing. Here's why: since 1964, Colombia has been pretty much plagued with an insurgency by the _Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia,_ or FARC (in English, it's the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia). They claim to represent the poor and oppressed in Colombia, but have conducted many of their operations through kidnappings and exploiting the drug trade in Colombia (Colombia is… famous, for his drug kingpins :/). FARC is also have child soldiers in its ranks, and they have been known to execute high-profile prisoners if their demands aren't met. Because this group identifies itself as fighting in the name of Marxism, understandably, Colombians have become weary of left-leaning political parties and politicians; thus leading to a right-wing government.

Of course, countries whose gov'ts represent opposing ideologies can often keep ties and be ally's, but what ruined it for these countries was how, in 2008, the Colombian military crossed over Venezuela and into Ecuador, where they attacked a FARC training ground. By doing this, the sovereignty of both countries was violated, and Venezuela and Colombia nearly went to war over it (with Venezuela moving some 15,000 troops to the border with Colombia). Soon after, Colombia broke diplomatic relations with both Venezuela and Ecuador.

So where does Cuba fit in with all of this? Well, Cuba, as the first socialist/communist country in Latin America, has influenced and continues to influence other countries in the area to lean left, as seen in Nicaragua, Peru, Grenada, and, more recently, Ecuador and Venezuela. So as a result, Cuba and Colombia are not friends, like, AT ALL 8|

And with that last bit in the end, with Cuba actually wanting Venezuela to treat Colombia better… the problems with FARC haven't been resolved yet, but the two did restore diplomatic ties. It's a start ^^

50: I AM DROPPING THE BIGGEST HINT OF YOUR LIFE HERE WITH WHAT I'M GOING TO DO WITH IRAN. Things will be explained further in chapter 8 :]

51: This is just me, starting to lean more towards DR/Haiti than Cuba/Haiti, despite all the evidence that the latter would be more likely. I donno, I just have a soft spot for love-hate relationships (which is very much the case for the Dominican Republic and Haiti), and feel a bit uncomfortable with the fact that… because of the nature of their relationship, if they were a couple Cuba would probably be more of a sugar daddy to Haiti than anything else ._. And I don't approve of such things.

53: Hey, did I meantion that I love Cuba/Belarus? Because I do. Um, just in case I wasn't clear, though: Belarus does love Cuba. But she only ever tells him so when she's drunk, so he just doesn't believe her xD

54: ...I love all the angst that Cuba and Puerto Rico produce 8D

Annnnnnd that's the end of Beyond the Axis of Evil! Next is the Axis of Evil itself, starting with **North Korea** (*cue thunder crashing and scary music in the background*).


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